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Earnest Leighton, 


A. 


F. SMITH. 


“ Semper Eadem.''^ 




ST. LOUIS: 


MAY 7,1881 


Christian Publishing Company. 
i88i. 


r 




COPYRIGHT BY 

Christian Publishing Company. 

i88i. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. PAGE. 

I. The Cholera, - - . - _ ^ 

II. The Half-brother, - - . _ 20 

III. Death, ------ 29 

IV. The Arab and His Sister, - - _ ^8 

V. Who is Guardian, - - - _ 

VI. The Arab’s New Home, - _ _ 

VIL The Teachers and Pupils, " " “ ^5 

VIII. A Lesson in Ethics, - - - - 83 

IX. Earnest Leighton, ----- 95 

X. The Priests in Council, - - - 120 

XI. Marabel, - - - - - -136 

XIL First Impressions, - - - - 152 

XIII. Other Impressions, - - - - 163 

XIV. Father Louis’ Reply, - - - 171 

XV. The Confidence Interrupted, - - “ ^77 

XVI. Sister Angelica, . - - . i8y 

XVII. The Escape, 204 

XVIII. Trouble Again, - - - - - 218 


XIX. A Connecting Link, - - - '*227 

XX. Love, 234 

XXI. The Prisoner, - - - - "257 

XXII. Disappointment, . _ . _ 270 

XXIII. Consultation, . - _ _ . 278 

XXIV. The Invalid, 2S5 

XXV. The Brother and Sister, - . _ 296 

XXVI. Old Acquaintances, . _ , ^07 

XXVII. Conclusion, 313 


EARNEST LEIGHTON, 


CHAPTER I. 

THE CIIOT.ERA. 

The year is 1832, and the season is summer. 
The events of this narrative have their beginning 
at this time, in the city of New York. These are 
the da3^s of the cholera. Its frightful ravages are 
visible everywhere. People are dying faster than 
ihev' can be decently buried. Rough wagons are 
hearses, and uncouth teamsters are undertakers. 
Men fall on the streets in paroxysms of pain, and 
in a few hours they are — dead. Little ones at their 
mothers’ breasts scream with sudden agony and 
die. Tender wom.en writhe in horrible anguish 
and then — they are buried. 

The deepest gloom is over the whole city. Men 
approach each other cautiously. They speak in 
whispers, and look anxiously around. A question 
is asked, and the answer states a death. They 
steal away with haggard faces. The neighbor they 
spoke to yesterday is dead — dead. They turn a 
corner and see a rude box on a jostling cart. That 

9 


lO 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


is his funeral. In every direction vehicles are mov- 
ing with their sad freight. The sound of the death 
cart’s dull rumbling is always heard. The whole 
populace is wild with a consuming anxiety. A 
maddening suspense, nearly as frightful as the ter- 
rible epidemic, is burning the life out of almost 
every one. Oh ! these horrible days ! Will they 
never, never end? 

This grim malady stalks with frightful strides 
through the city; it is the King of Terrors. The 
inhabitants are stricken to the heart in their wild 
anguish. It breaks the bolts on palace doors ; it 
steals through dark passages, up filthy stairs, into 
loathsome rooms ; and then it kills. Screams and 
groans are heard from room to room of these im- 
mense buildings, filling with increasing dread the 
panic-stricken people. Many of them leave their 
homes and wander listlessly about the city, with 
agonizing fear written upon their faces. An im- 
pending doom that they can not avert paralyzes 
every thought, and they move mechanically from 
place to place. They are living images of death, 
suffering in advance the horrible disease that is 
filling their cemetery with graves. 

The time of awful suffering is also the time of 
heroic deeds. Hundreds are fleeing from the city 
every day — fleeing from death. Others put on the 
martyr’s robe, and await the martyr’s crown. Weak 
women become strong in this hour of trial. They 
go to the bedside of agony, and minister there. 
Self-sacrificing men — Christ-men — forget them- 


THE CHOLERA. 


II 


selves in this extreme moment. Temporary hospi- 
tals are opened all over the city, and the sick and 
dying are crowded into them. The municipal au- 
thorities and religious societies leave no effort un- 
tried to secure nurses and assistants for these. 

In the business part of the city, on a dark, nar- 
row street, is a long building, used for a ware- 
house. Since the beginning of the epidemic the 
ground floor had been converted into a hospital, 
and is now called St. James. This room is very 
large, wide and long, with low ceiling. A light 
partition runs through it lengthwise, dividing it into 
two equal parts. On each side of the partition, 
and on each side of the apartment, is a row of 
bunks, making four in all. Each outside row is 
separated from the center by a narrow aisle. This 
hospital was opened by the Catholics, and it is now 
entirely under their control. 

Its management is placed in the hands of a priest 
by the name of Mallory. He is an exceptional 
human being. He defles all laws of phrenology in 
any attempt to analyze his character. There he is, 
corpulent, round-bodied, and round-faced, with the 
smallest and sharpest black eyes, that keep up a 
perpetual sparkle and snap in the shadows of his 
fat cheeks. The whole appearance of the man sug- 
gests nothing but good living, save only the quench- 
less fire of those oddly burning eyes. The expres- 
sion of his face is generally good-natured and jolly, 
with a cheerful smile lurking in the creases around 
his mouth. There are times, however, when the 


12 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


man becomes suddenly transformed, and in such 
moments the light of those strange eyes seemed to 
burn over his entire countenance. 

The nurses he appointed to St. James Hospital 
were mainly Sisters, under the direction of an Ab- 
bess. A few men were secured in case their serv- 
ices might be required in the management of some 
difficult patient. 

In a very short time the epidemic had filled the 
hospital to its utmost capacity. Every day large 
numbers die, and every day new victims are brought 
in. The Abbess is faithful to provide for as many 
as she can, and the Sisters are unceasing in their 
care. They fearlessly brave the disease and pa- 
tiently nurse the sick. 

Father Malloiy visits the hospital regularly twice 
a day. It is now about the middle of July, and 
the cholera is at its height. The priest drives over 
early in the morning, and is standing on the steps 
in earnest conversation with the Abbess. The 
latter says, excitedly: 

“We must have more men to bury the dead. 
They lie here sometimes for two hours, and that 
will never do. They should be carried awav as 
soon as dead. Send us help — we must have it.” 

“And you shall have it,” replied the priest. “I 
will send you more men to-day.” 

Tne conversation contiued a few moments lon- 
ger, and then the priest turned to take his depart- 
ure, and as he did so, he saw near him three men 
who were carrying a fourth. 


THE CHOLERA. 1 3 

As soon as they reached the spot where he had 
stopped, he said to the party : 

“Whom have you there?” 

The sick man was a stranger to the group. All 
the information they could give concerning him 
was the fact that the}" had found him, a short time 
before, in convulsions from a sudden attack of the 
cholera. He had fallen on the street ; they had 
picked him up and brought him to the hospital. 

At this moment a ragged urchin suddenly step- 
ped up to the party, and tiptoeing, peeped into the 
face of the sick man, who was now lying in a state 
of passive unconsciousness. Then, turning to Fa- 
ther Mallory, said : 

“I be his acquaintance.” 

“And who are you?” exclaimed the priest, as he 
gazed at the little intruder, whose apparel consist- 
ed of a half-worn shirt, patched pants that stopped 
midway between his feet and knees, and a rough 
silk hat that afforded abundant ventilation, which 
he had placed far back on his head. 

“Who be /, did you ask. Mister?” and the big 
brown eyes of the boy met the little black ones of 
the priest with a look of astonishment, as he re- 
plied : “/ be /2/5 acquaintance.” 

The men bore their burden into the hospital, as 
the priest jocularly put his next question : 

“Haveyt>?/ any name, my little man?” 

“You be right, my patriarch,” rejoined the boy. 
“I be Mister Jacques — Mister Henri Jacques.” 
And the boy unstrapped his blacking box, placed 


14 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


it on the ground, drew himself up to his full height, 
tipped his hat further back on his head, put his 
hands in his pockets, and added: “I be without 
ancestors.” 

“And the sick man is your acquaintance?” 

“He be.” 

“What is his name?” 

“Mister Stanley.” 

“Where did you know him?” 

“We be in the same business house.” 

The priest smiled as he asked, “What do yo do?” 

“I be contractor to black boots and furnish 
papers.” 

“And Mr. Stanley?” 

“Book-keeper.” 

“What is your proprietor’s name?” 

“Mister William Leighton.” 

“William Leighton,” exclaimed the priest, “And 
this his book-keeper — in St. James Hospital — with 
the cholera — good.” 

“Be you speaking to me, my worthy?” asked the 
boy. 

“No, you may go,” said Father Mallor}?-, tossing 
him some small coin, as he turned to his buggy. He 
suddenly paused a moment in thought, then slowL 
walked back to the hospital and said to the Ab- 
bess : “The man just carried in is a Mr. Stanley, 
and I have special reasons for wishing that he should 
be placed as far as possible from the main entrance. 
Will you see to it?” 

“Yes, I’ll put him in 97, which is in the far end 
of the hospital,” rejoined the Abbess. 


THE CHOLERA. 


15 


Without another word he stepped into his buggy 
and drove rapidly away, directing his course to one 
of the principal streets of the city. He was wholly 
absorbed by his own reflections, and seemed to be 
entirely unconscious of his glooniy surroundings. 
It was yet early in the forenoon when he drew up 
before a sightly mansion. Leisurely hitching his 
horse, he quietly walked up the stone steps and 
rang the door-bell. 

“Is Father Manning in?’’ he asked the servant 
who answered his ring. 

Receiving an affirmative answer, he was ushered 
into an elegantly furnished library, and was wel- 
comed in person by the other priest. 

Robert Manning, the Catholic, the priest, the 
Jesuit, is a half-brother of William Leighton, the 
millionaire and zealous Christian. He is no ordi- 
nary man. The prominent brow, the pale face, 
the steel gray eyes, the thin lips that firmly close 
over the whitest teeth, the self-possessed appear- 
ance, all mark him as gifted beyond the usual de- 
gree. He is the incarnation of cool intrigue, of 
fearless execution. He is now an acknowledged 
leader in his church, and is considered the best au- 
thority on all matters of general policy. But his 
eminent ability does not make him the equal in deep 
cunning of his brother priest of the sharp black 
eyes. 

As Mallory accepted the proffered seat, Robert 
Manning asked : 

“Have you any news of interest this morning?” 


i6 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“None,” responded the priest, “except there is 
no abatement in the cholera.” And he drummed 
musingly on the table as if he were tr3dng to ap- 
proach a most delicate subject. 

“Terrible !”* exclaimed Father Manning, “this 
horrible malady is an enemy that I can not fight 
against. It disarms me.” 

“Yet this enemy may do you a friendly service,” 
said Mallory, in a quiet, questioning tone, with a 
growing light in his eyes. 

Robert Manning never allowed an}^ one to sur- 
prise him, but it was obvious he did not see the 
drift ot his visitor’s remark. He slowly turned his 
gaze upon him as he said : 

“It is far more likely to vacate my office than to 
benefit me.” 

After a short pause. Father Mallory spoke : 

“William Leighton is your half-brother, I be- 
lieve?” 

“Yes, we both have the same mother.” 

“I have learned he is immensely rich. Is it true?” 

“He is one of the richest men in the city.” 

“How large is his family?” 

“He has a wife and two children ; a boy and a 
girl.” 

“In case of their deaths, who is the next heir?” 

“Our Order will be, through me. I do not ap- 
prehend any danger of their all dying. Indeed, 
I’ve built no hope upon an event so improbable.” 

Malloiy starts to his feet and says, impatiently : 

“Remember the cholera. Hundreds are dying 


THE CHOLERA. I7 

every day. Why should Leighton’s palace be proof 
against the epidemic?” 

“I do not think it is,” quietly replied Father 
Manning, “and I have the same opinion of my own 
home.”^ 

“You will not expose yourself, but — 

“Neither will my half-brother,” interrupted Rob- 
ert Manning. 

“He won’t!” exclaimed Father Mallory. “Lis- 
ten ! Stanley, his book-keeper, lies sick at St. 
James Hospital.” 

“Well, so do many others ; but my half-brother 
is not a physician,” was the rejoinder, and the pale, 
clean-cut face of Robert Manning gave no evi- 
dence of the thoughts that were agitating his soul. 

Mallory, seating himself, again tapped the table 
with his fingers, while his burning eyes stared 
straight before him. At length he said : 

“In case Mr. Leighton’s children become or- 
phan’s, will not you be their natural guardian?” 

“Yes ; I am their nearest relative.” 

“Do you not see a bright possibility for the 
church?” asked Mallory, rising from his chair and 
taking up his hat. 

“I assure you, my dear Father, that I am not a 
mad enthusiast,” said Manning, with a slight curl 
of his thin lips. 

Mallory gave expression to a short, bitter laugh, 
then exclaimed impatiently, almost fiercely : 

“I am loth to surrender an enterprise that I be- 
lieve to be so important and so practicable. But I 

B 


l8 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

desist from pressing the matter, as Father Manning 
is my superior, and the party most interested in 
the transaction.” 

“It is to be deeply regretted that Father Mallory 
does not occupy my position,” said Robert Man- 
ning, in tones of the coldest irony. “His execu- 
tive ability should not be confined to a field so small 
as the limitations of his present office impose on 
him. Indeed, the matter should at once be at- 
tended to.” 

He arose from his chair, reflected a single mo- 
ment, then extended his hand to Mallory, and said : 
“My dear Father, we’re always trying to quarrel, 
but then we should not, as we are invaluable to 
each other. Suppose you go now and return about 
this time to-morrow ; there may be some impor- 
tant revelations by then.” 

A winning smile was on the lips of Father Man- 
ning as he spoke, and all the good nature was back 
in Mallory’s face as he took his departure. 

When the door closed on his visitor an entire 
change came over Robert Manning. He remained 
for some time with his head bowed on the table, 
every few moments a shudder shook his strong 
frame, and at last he arose and walked the room 
with hasty steps, his hands working nervously be- 
hind him ; then he threw himself on a divan only 
to remain a moment, when he sprang to his feet, 
hastily crossed the the room, seized the bell han- 
dle, hesitated, dropped his hands — and finally re- 
turned to his position on the divan. This man. 


THE CHOLERA. 


19 


who never showed an emotion in the presence of 
another, is now torn and tossed by the storm of 
his own feelings. Evening was rapidly approach- 
ing before he became master of himself. He then 
rang the bell, and, in his usually quiet tones, or- 
dered the servant who answered his summons to 
have his carriage at the door as quickly as pos- 
sible. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE HALF-BROTHER. 

Father Manning drove at once to the store of 
Mr. Leighton, and not finding the proprietor in, 
hastened on to his residence. He reached the lat- 
ter place about dusk, and soon found himself in 
the library in the presence of Mr. ‘Leighton. The 
half-brothers had but little intercourse with eacl:^ 
other in the ordinary duties of life. Indeed, they 
seldom met. By common consent they moved 
apart, owing to the great chasm created by their 
widely different religious views. 

In the personal appearance of these two men 
there is not a single trace of relationship. They 
are wholly unlike. But each is eminently suited 
to fill his peculiar station in life. One is an ideal 
business man, the other an ideal priest. This dif- 
ference in their pursuits clearly marks the distin- 
guishing traits of their characters. 

Mr. Leighton, in his straight forward way, gave 
expression to his natural surprise when he remark- 
ed, “Robert, has anything extraordinary occurred 
in the city to occasion your unusual visit?” 

“Nothing in the least,” was the rejoinder. “I 
have felt terribly depressed all the afternoon, and 

thought to revive my spirits by driving out. I 
20 


THE HALF-BROTHER. 


21 


found myself near your residence and just called 
in a few moments.” 

“The present condition of the city is calculated 
to make one gloomy,” said Mr. Leighton. “Is there 
any decrease in the number of cholera cases?” 

“I think not. T am sure it is not observable.” 

% 

“It is a terrible calamity, and beyond the power 
of man to do much to mitigate it. The general 
anxiety is greatly intensified by the constant fear 
of some of one’s own family or near friends being 
stricken down.” He added, after a slight pause : 
“It has been two days since I heard from the store, 
though we are doing no business at present.” 

“B}’ the way, I remember now,” said the Jesuit, 
“your book-keeper has the cholera. He was ta- 
ken—” 

“What! Stanley has the cholera!” exclaimed 
Mr. Leighton, suddenly rising to his feet. “When? 
Where?” 

“He was found on the street this morning by 
some of our men, and they carried him to St. 
James Hospital, where he is receiving the best 
care we can give him,” replied Father Manning. 

“Poor, poor Stanley,” murmured Mr. Leighton, 
as he walked to and fro in the room, “poor fellow. 
His mother’s last help gone if he should die.” 
Then, turning to his half-brother, he asked : “When 
did you say he was attacked?” 

“Early this morning.” 

“And now it is night, and I have just heard it. 
I must go to him at once.” 


22 


EARNEST LEmHTON. 


As he spoke he rang the bell, and at the same 
moment Mrs. Leighton entered the room. Her 
greeting of Robert Manning was suddenly termin- 
ated by Mr. Leighton saying* “Wife, Stanley has 
the cholera; I must go to see him to-night.’’ 

Her face grew wery pale, and without a single 
word, sank into a chair and gazed at her husband. 

“I see no use in your going,” said Father Man- 
ning. Your book-keeper has the best medical 
attendance, and you can be of no assistance what- 
ever, while you endanger your own life.” 

His wife now came to him, and putting her arms 
around his neck, said in a tremulous voice: “My 
dear husband, do not go, for my sake do not go. 
Oh ! I am so afraid of that hospital — that awful 
hospital. Remember me, remember our children, 
and then do stay away.” 

Mr. Leighton fondly took her face in his hands, 
and, tenderly kissing her, replied : “My little wife, 
there is no especial danger, and I feel it to be my 
imperative duty. Please do not beg me to stay 
away, when I know I ought to go. In all prob- 
ability Stanley’s poor mother does not know where 
he is.” 

With great difficulty his wife repressed her tears 
as she rejoined : “My darling, I can not bear to see 
you go. I have a strange presentiment of evil, and 
I can not tell you why, but I am all trembling with 
fear. I have the most painful misgivings. Do not 
go. Say that you will not.” 


I'HE HALF-BROTHER. 


23 


Robert Manning had crossed to a bay window 
on the opposite side of the room, where he was 
standing with a half smile on his cold, thin lips. 
When Mrs. Leighton ceased to speak, he abruptly 
turned with this remark: “I suggest, William, that 
you delay your visit until I go home and send a 
note of inquiry to the hospital. If Stanley is still 
alive and wishes to see you, wh}^ the Abbess can 
communicate the fact to you without any delay. 
This will enable you, if necessary, to make your 
visit by 10 o’clock to-night. I think this course 
will, at least, avoid all unnecessary exposure.” 

Mrs. Leighton at once urged her husband to con- 
sent to this proposition, which he reluctantly did. 
Robert Manning, without any further delay, took 
his departure, promising to communicate immedi- 
ately with the Abbess, in order to ascertain the 
wishes of Mr. Stanley. 

The intervening hours passed slowly away. Mr. 
Leighton walked the floor restlessly, like a man 
who had postponed an unpleasant obligation which 
he should have promptly discharged. His wife 
was in a nervous suspense, starting violently at 
every sound. If a door opened in a remote part 
of the house, her heart would beat painfully as she 
tried to determine if the footsteps were approach- 
ing her room. x\h, well ! the future held enough 
that was dark to make this true man and woman 
tremble. Unconsciously to them the fatal hours 
were flying all too fast. 


24 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. 


The hands of the tiny clock on the richly carved 
mantel-piece pointed to a quarter past nine, when 
a servant entered the room and handed Mr. Leigh- 
ton a note. Before he could break the seal his 
wife was by his side, eager to know its contents. 
The communication was from the Abbess, and ran 
as follows : 

Dear Sir.— I do not think Mr, Stanley can live through the 
night. He has begged piteously for you. It is contrary to our 
regulations to admit visitors, but for his sake we will make an 
exception in your favor. If you desire to converse with him 
you would better come at once. Catharina, 

St. James Hospital, July 25th, 1832. 

As she read these lines there came into Mrs. 
Leighton’s eyes a pained, hopeless look. Her 
heart almost stood still as she contemplated the 
terrible anxiety of the next twelve hours. But she 
was a brave woman, and she was the first to speak. 
“Go, my husband,” she said, “ it is your duty, 
go.” And she herself gave the order for the ser- 
vant to bring Mr. Leighton’s carriage to the door. 
The supposed message from the dying man had 
transformed this woman, and without one word of 
discouragement, she sent her husband forth to 
breathe the poisoned air of the hospital. She 
watched him from the doorway till he was lost in 
the shadows of night, and then she sought the nurs- 
ery, and in broken voice, prayed for him over the 
sleeping forms of her two children. 

While his wife was waiting with anxious heart, 
Mr. Leighton was fulfilling his mission. He drove 
directly to St. James Hospital, and was at once led 


THE HALF-BROTHER. 


25 


into a private office. The only occupant of this 
office was a stately woiiidn, from whose dress and 
appearance Mr. Leighton correctly judged to be 
the Abbess. He gave his name and stated the ob- 
ject of his visit. 

“In the last hour there has been a most favora- 
ble change for the better in the case of Mr. Stan- 
ley,” said the Abbess. She quietly stepped to a 
door that opened into the main room, and added : 
“As you wish to see him, take the left aisle, and 
at the far end, on the right side, in No. 97, you 
will find him.” 

“Thank you,” said Mr. Leighton, and he passed 
into the hospital that was crowded with the sick 
and d3dng. The first thing that met his gaze was 
a victim of the cholera, who was hastily being 
wrapped in a coarse blanket to be deposited in 
a rude box that was placed so as to obstruct his 
passage. While he paused for the way to be clear- 
ed, he observed the sad spectacle occasioned by 
this fearful scourge. He saw on his right a strong 
man writhing in such awful agony that it required 
two others to hold him on his bed, while on his 
left was a little boy, a mere child, moaning out his 
life. A Sister of Charity was kneeling by the bed- 
side, repeating a litany for the sick. He hears her 
as she says : “Holy Mother of God, pray for him.” 
“All ye holy Saints of God, make intercession for 
him.” Then her voice was lost in the cries and 
groans that are wrung from the lips of the suf- 
ferers. 


26 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


The passage was clear again, and Mr. Leighton 
moved on. A chilly sensation was creeping over 
him that grows to an icy coldness. A shudder 
passed through his frame, and for a moment he 
staggered. Large drops of perspiration stood on 
his brow, but hand and face are cold — his very 
h iart seemed to be growing cold. With a mighty ef- 
fort he controlled himself, mastered this feeling and 
pushed on. He passed a priest absolving a dying 
man, crowded by another rough box that will soon 
be borne out and into the cemetery — a few steps 
farther on in the midst of human woe, and he 
reached No. 97. 

There was an old, clumsy stool by the bedside, 
on which Mr. Leighton seated himself, so that his 
face would be slightly shaded. On the couch lay 
Stanley, pale, haggard, exhausted, but apparently 
almost free from pain. When he saw Mr. Leigh- 
ton, he raised himself on his elbow with an excla- 
mation of surprise. 

“Well, m}^ poor fellow, you have been very sick, 
but I hope you are better now,” said Mr. Leigh- 
ton, in a kindly tone. 

Without paying the least attention to this re- 
mark, Stanley burst out with : “Why are you here ? 
Don’t stay, oh I don’t. ‘Go away at once — at 
once.” In his excitement he assumed a sittino- 

O 

posture, but his strength failed him, and he fell 
back helpless on the bed. 

Mr. Leighton sprang to his relief, but was check- 
ed by a hand laid on his arm. He turned and met 


THE HALF-BROTHER. 


27 


the gaze of Father Mallory. The priest quietly 
drew him a little distance from the sick man, and 
said : “My dear sir, you see your presence greatly 
excites Mr. Stanley. He is very weak, and this 
nervous agitation might prove fatal to him. If he 
continues to improve, you can conveniently move 
him by morning. Suppose you end the matter by 
telling him you will send a carriage for him early 
to-morrow.” 

Mr. Leighton looked at the priest in blank as- 
tonishment, but only said : “Stanley has been 
pleading to see me all day.” 

“Oh, yes ; I know that,” responded the priest. 
“He called for you constantly when beside him- 
self with pain, and when he thought he was sure 
to die. But it is different now. He is scared 
about you instead of himself, and I do not think 
unnecessarily so. This is a dangerous place for a 
man who is not thoroughly impregnated with disin- 
fectants and somewhat naturalized, so to speak. I 
should advise you to get away from here as soon as 
possible. Tell him what I suggested, and then you 
can talk to him as much as you please to-morrow. 
What do you say? ” 

“I consent,” said Mr. Leighton, impatiently, as 
he moved towards the bed. 

“Wait a moment,” said the priest. “1 want to 
caution Stanley not to get excited.” 

He talked with him for a minute, in a low voice, 
then motioned Mr. Leighton to come forward. 

The caution was wholly unnecessary as Mr. 


28 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


Leighton briefly said: “Stanley, I will send for 
you in the morning and have you brought to my 
home ; till then good-bye and with a slight bow 
to Father Mallory, he walked toward the door of 
the hospital, full of indignation and suspicion. 
The priest followed him closely. 

The chills are creeping over him again. Cold 
darts seem to be shot through his frame. The very 
marrow of his bones is like ice. His step is un- 
certain as he crosses the threshold. As the light 
of the lamp falls upon his face, it is deathly pale. 
His lips are tightly compressed, but they twitch 
nervously as if mortal agony would burst them 
apart. But he staggers on. He reaches his car- 
riage, and says to the driver, in a strange, hollow 
tone : “Home, as fast as you can.” 

As the carriage moved rapidly away. Father 
Mallory was standing in the door of the hospital, 
watching it. A triumphant smile spread over his fat 
face and lighted up his black eyes, and as he rubbed 
his hands together, he was heard to mutter: “My 
first card is a trump and then, with a deeper 
chuckle, he turned away, saying to himself : “My 
worthy friend, you said good-bye till morning, but 
it may be good-bye forever.” 


CHAPTER III. 


DEATH. 

Mr. Leighton reached his home. The worst 
fears of his wife were realized. He had the chol- 
era. When the driver opened the carriage door, 
he found his master suffering excruciating pains. 
He was in convulsions. His form was drawn up, 
knotted and cramped. The man was in torture. 
The excited coachman cried aloud for help. The 
terror-stricken wife was first to rush out, followed 
by the servants. 

The agony of her husband seemed to calm her. 
The extremity of his danger called out all her la- 
tent strength. She ordered the servants to bear 
him into the house ; she dispatched one for Dr. 
Logan, the family physician, and another for Mr. 
Malor, the faithful pastor. Then she applied all 
the remedies known to her. The attacks of cramp- 
ing passed off, but they came again. They follow- 
ed each other with fearful rapidity. Still she work- 
ed on. Hopeful when he lay quiet and painless ; 
but a terrible weight crushed on her heart when 
the rigid anguish cords every muscle of his body. 

Dr. Logan came, followed immediately by Mr. 
Malor. A cloud gathered on the doctor’s brow as 

29 


30 


EARNEST EEKtHTON. 


he looked at Mr. Leigliton ; the cloud darkened as 
he felt his pulse and pressed the examination. 
But he acted promptly. He at once began heroic 
treatment. He also at once sent for a consulting 
physician. 

x\s the doctor was preparing some medicine at 
the little table, across the room from the sick man, 
Mrs. Leighton approached him and asked : “Doc- 
tor, is there any hope?” and her voice trembled — 
her voice was full of tears. 

The eN'es of the gruff, good-hearted doctor be- 
came moist, as he looked at the woman before him, 
the woman with her heart full of pent-up agony, 
but he replied: “It is a severe attack, and 1 have 
sent for Dr. Renfro, that I may have help and 
counsel. The case is not yet hopeless.” 

She cast at him a wistful look, and turned away 
with a death-like pallor overspreading her face. 

Morning broke, bringing to an end the weary 
night. Mr. Leighton demanded constimt atten- 
tion. Wife, physician, pastor, all were doing their 
best for him, but he grew weaker, weaker — so fast. 
Each paroxysm left him feebler. In the intervals 
between his crampings he lay listless. This stupor 
grew upon him. But early in the morning he ral- 
lied and asked to see his children. OnR for a mo- 
ment were Earnest and Rena brought into the sick 
room. Mr. Leighton laid his hand on their heads, 
tenderly kissed them, uttered some words of en- 
dearment, and said to Mr. Malor : “If I should die, 
I want you to be their guardian — their protector ; ” 


dp:ath. 


31 


for a few seconds his lips continued to move, but 
no words were audible. The children were then 
taken away from their unconscious father. 

The little clock on the mantel-piece spoke again, 
in silver tones, nine and a quarter. Dr. Renfro, 
the consulting physician, arrived. Dr. Logan, 
with him, made a thorough examination of his pa- 
tient. Then in private a brief consultation follow- 
ed. The physicians agree that there is no hope — 
no hope. These words measure the depth of hu- 
man sadness. 

“He can not live till noon,” said Dr. Renfro, 
“and his wife should be immediately informed of 
his condition. This painful duty, Dr. Logan, de- 
volves on you.” 

“Yes,” was the reply, “but I think Mr. Malor 
the fittest person to communicate this intelligence. 
I shall go to him at once.” Dr. Logan walked 
away with sad face and heavy heart, for he and 
Mr. Leighton had been bosom friends from their 
earliest boyhood. 

He found tlie minister in the library, and asked 
him to break the mournful news to Mrs. Leighton. 
“I will send her to you right away,” he said, “as 
every moment is precious.” 

Immediately Mrs. Leighton entered the library, 
and when the poor minister found himself in her 
presence he could not control his feelings. lie 
broke down entirely in his first effort to speak. 
Then he told her, in a husky, hesitating voice, 
“Dr. Logan says — says there is no — no hope — for 


32 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


He could go no farther. With a heart-broken 
moan, she sank into a chair, her large, earnest eyes 
silently pleading that he would take back the 
cruel words. The tearless agony of that gaze over- 
came the tender-hearted minister, and he cried like 
a child. 

“Death, death,” she repeated, as if she were slow- 
ly grasping its meaning. Then, with a wild burst 
of grief, she cried: “He can not, he shall not 
die — my poor, poor husband.” She bowed her 
head and wept as only woman Can weep when she 
sees passing away the very strength of her life. 

This passionate grief lasted but a few moments, 
when she partially controlled herself and went 
again to the bedside of her husband. During the 
last hour he had been rapidly sinking, and was 
now lying apparently unconscious. She laid her 
hand softly on his brow, and he opened his eyes, 
gazing at her fondly with a smile upon his face, as 
he said in tones full of tenderness: “Darling, 1 
do not suffer now.” The voice stopped, the slight- 
est tremor passed through his frame, the eyes slow- 
ly closed, and the loving wife caught the fading 
smile upon her lips, as she passionately kissed her 
dead husband. 

The tiny clock toned off eleven, and then it tick- 
ed on and on as if it knew nothing of human mis- 
ery. The household was panic-stricken, and every 
thing was in the wildest confusion. Servants were 
running hither and thither, and some of them in 
terror were leaving the premises, while others group- 


DEATH. 33 

ed together and talked tenderly of him who had 
gone out into the great unseen. 

Mrs. Leighton bowed before the storm with a 
broken heart. Both of her children were crying 
piteously on her lap, and between their sobs they 
pleaded in a childlike way to know what mamma 
weeps so for, and wh}^ papa lies so still. And she, 
poor woman, hugged them convulsively to her 
breast, and then with a moan of pain rocked to 
and fro. She held to her lips the bitterest draught 
of her life ; oh, how bitter! Mr. Malor and Dr. 
Logan tried to console her, but when can human 
words alleviate human woe? They can not stay 
the waves of anguish that sweep over her soul ; 
they can only weep with her that weeps. 

But the end is not yet. The angel of death 
bears another message to earth — calls another pil- 
grim home. The family circle that has been so 
happy through the ^^ears that are gone, has upon it 
now the seal of doom. One link has already been 
broken, the strongest in the chain ; another is ready 
to be severed, the golden one. 

The sun had scarcely reached the meridian on 
that July day, when Mrs. Leighton was seized with 
the cholera. The attack w'as doubly violent, ow- 
ing, doubtless, to her nervous prostration. Shall 
we pass in silence over her suffering and agony? 
She felt from the beginning that her case was hope- 
less, and her mother-love was shown by her deep 
solicitude for her children. 

In a moment when she was resting easy, she 


34 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

took the minister’s hand, and said: “I give you 
Earnest and Rena as the dearest treasures of my 
heart; make them members of your own family, 
love them as your own children, guard them, oh ! 
guard them well, for they are threatened by dangers 
you know not of;” — a glorious light gathered in 
her large open eyes, as she continued — “and then 
a dying mother’s blessing will rest upon you, and 
the great good God, will reward you.” 

Later in the day she made another effort to speak, 
but only said : “Beware of Mr. Man — ,” then her 
voice broke as she sunk into a state of unconscious- 
ness. 

She had possibly remained in this condition for 
an hour, when she, without a moan or struggle, 
quietl}^ breathed her last. 

It would be difficult to describe the consterna- 
tion that prevailed after Mrs. Leighton’s death. 
The servants were utterly bewildered and frantic. 
Only a few of the old friends of the family ven- 
tured in, and they were greatly alarmed. Even 
the faithful doctor and minister, for a moment, lost 
their presence of mind. But they soon rallied and 
pressed forward, as rapidly as possible, the ar- 
rangements that were necessary to be made in or- 
der to discharge the last sad acts of respect to 
their deceased friends. 

Early in the morning word was sent to Robert 
Manning, stating the critical condition of Mr. 
Leighton. Immediately after his death a second 
message was Sf^nt to the priest, but b^^ing awav 


DEATH. 35 

from his home neither communication reached 
him till late in the afternoon. 

Dr. Loo'an and Mr. Malor grew very impatient 
in waiting for his arrival. Night had already set in, 
and the preparations for the burial were nearlv 
completed, and still Robert Manning did not come. 

At one end of the library was a small reading 
room, separated from the main apartment by fold- 
ing doors. Here the physician and minister were 
seated in earnest conversation about their two 
friends. 

At last the minister said : “Doctor, do 3^ou know 
an^Thing of the intimacy that existed between Mr. 
Leighton and his half-brother?” 

“Almost nothing,” was the reply, “though I am 
sure they were not intimate. Yet they were en- 
tirely friendl^^ so far as known to me.” 

“You attribute no importance, then, to the bro- 
ken remark of Mrs. Leighton a short time before 
her death?” asked Mr. Malor. 

“Oh, no : nothing whatever. She was flighty 
and did not understand what she was saying. We 
can not wait much longer for that priest,” contin- 
ued the doctor, as he arose and walked toward the 
window ;“I do heartily wish he would come.” 

Just then the sound of wheels was heard with- 
out, and in a few moments Robert Manning made 
his appearance, accompanied b}' Father Mallory. 
Ilis face was a little paler than usual, but his voice 
had the same quiet tone, as he gave the reasons for 
his delay. 


36 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


He had not heard yet of Mrs. Leighton’s death, 
and when this was made known to him something 
like a tear dimmed his steel grey eye, but dimmed 
it only for a moment. 

After a brief conversation on their sad surround- 
ings, the pressing duties of the hour came up for 
consideration. Father Manning approved the rap- 
id preparation which had already been made for a* 
hasty burial. He only urged his objection against 
the wish of Dr. Logan and Mr. Malor, that the 
two children should accompany them to the ceme- 
tery. He deemed such a step imprudent, and pro- 
posed that the old house-keeper and himself should 
remain in charge of them. 

Earnest and Rena were crying bitterly all the 
while, and begging piteously to see their father 
and mother. With kind words the minister tried 
to soothe them, but they only wept the more pas- 
sionately. 

The coffins were carried out and placed in the 
hearse, and as it drove away Rena was moaning in 
the arms of the old nurse, and Earnest sat on the 
door-step sobbing as if his little heart would break. 

Just then Henri Jacques, who had come to mourn 
for the man who had befriended him, and who had 
been unnoticed till now, stepped up to the weeping 
boy, and said, with tears standing in his great 
brown eyes, “I be so sorry for you.” 

Earnest gazed at him an instant between his bro- 
ken sobs, then he suddenly extended his hand. 


DEATH. 37 

and for a moment, the hand of the boy millionaire 
was held in the firm clasp of the street Arab. 

This is one connecting link in their lives. Will 
others be wrought out in the future? 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE ARAB AND HIS SISTER. 

The night was deepening, but the moon was 
shining brightly. A few clouds were flying across 
the heavens, and a dark bank lay far to the south- 
west. Ever and anon its shaggy summit was illu- 
minated by lightning flashes, and the low murmur 
of thunder was barely audible. The faintest breeze, 
with a lost-like wail, was wafted from the distant 
clouds. 

It had been a full hour since the scanty funeral 
train passed from sight and hearing, and still the 
two priests stood a short distance in front of the 
house in earnest conversation. The children re- 
mained on the marble steps in charge of the old 
nurse, who sat listless with her chin resting on the 
palms of her hands. 

At last the conversation seemed to have reached 
its termination, as Father Mallory turned away and 
began untying his horse. But he was interrupted 
by Father Manning, who said : 

“Mallory, what do you know about that little 
Arab yonder, who has made such an unceremoni- 
ous appearance among us?” 

“Know about him !” exclaimed the other. “Why, 
he is the jolliest boy you ever saw ; he is as cute 
as a monkey.” 

38 


THE ARAB AND HIS SISTER. 39 

“Has the little scapegrace any name?” asked 
Robert Manning. 

“Name ! I should think he has. Upon my hon- 
or he is nearly all name. He calls himself Mr. Hen- 
ri Jacques. A foreign gentleman, you will observe, 
most worthy Father.” 

Mallory laughed heartily, and his eyes sparkled 
as they looked at the subject of their conversation, 
who had seated himself on the neck of the chisel- 
ed lion, and was tr3dng to divert the bereaved 
children by telling them wonderful stories. His 
whole attitude and expression were comic, although 
he feigned to be talking in the most serious man- 
ner, Earnest and Rena had quit crying, and 
were staring at him in childish curiosity, while 
even the nurse lifted her head and looked at him 
wonderingly. 

The shadow of a smile came to the face of Rob- 
ert Manning, and then suddenly vanished as if 
ashamed of itself, as he said : 

“Give that boy a new name and a new hat, and 
he has a future.” 

“I will be responsible for the first if you will for 
the last,” said Mallory. 

“Very well, my dear Father, and then what?” 
replied Manning. 

• “Then,” rejoined the other, “place him in 
charge of the Roman Catholic Orphan Society, and 
the outcome will be all right.” 

“But that institution is not yet established,” ob- 
jected Father Manning. 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 




“Ah, but it soon will be,” ^replied Mallory. Till 
then I will care for him, if I find he is really of the 
right quality.” 

“So be it,” said Father Manning, “and I pro- 
pose that you take charge of him at once.” 

Father Mallory assented by calling the boy to 
him. He left the company of the other children 
reluctantly, and came toward the priest with hesi- 
tating step.^ This is the turning point in his life, 
but the sequel must prove whether the change is for 
better or worse. As Mallory stepped into his buggy 
he said : 

“Come, my little man, jump in. I know you 
want to ride to the city.” 

“You be right, my governor,” said the boy as 
he sprang into the vehicle. 

“Now, Henri, I want to have a little talk with 
you, and the first thing I wish to know is, how old 
are you?” said Mallory as they drove off. 

“Twelve,” replied the boy, and then, with a 
comic look at the priest, he added : “You be curi- 
ous for a man^ my worthy.” 

Father Mallory paid no attention to this remark, 
but plied him with another question : 

“Have you ever gone to school any?” 

“Never!” and then, with a contemptuous toss 
of the head: “Do you think I be very rich, my 
straight coated friend?” 

The priest continued: “I want to help you, 

* In 1834 a bill passed the Legislature of New York legalizing 
this institution. 


THE ARAB AND HIS SISTER. 


41 


Henri — give you a home — give you money — send 
you to school — make a man of you. Now, what 
do you say?” 

This took the boy by surprise. He lifted his hat 
and threw back his head, with one eye shut, and 
with the other sighted through a hole in the crown 
of his much abused hat. Finally he recovered 
himself sufficiently to ask: “Be your wife willin’, 
my pious acquaintance?” 

The priest only laughed as he rejoined: “I’ll 
take care of that, my little man, if you are only 
‘willin.’ ” 

“Smash my old hat, stranger, be you really in 
earnest, now?” 

“Most assuredly I am,” said Mallory. 

The whole demeanor of the boy suddenly chang- 
ed, as he said in the bitterest tones : 

“I don’t care a mutton-chop about myself, but — 
my poor little sister. I tell you. Mister, if you 
would onty take her and give her schoolin, and 
make a lady out’n her. I’d — I’d — Oh, blow me. 
I’d do any thing !” And the little Arab wiped his 
eyes with his ragged coat sleeve. 

“Your sister! You have a sister?” exclaimed 
Mallory. “Why, where is she ?” 

“She be where I live. Mister,” said the boy. 

Mallory drove some distance in silence. His 
brow was knit in thought as he tried to solve this 
new feature of the case. “She might be made 
useful,” he muttered half to himself and half aloud. 


42 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“but — but I should rather get along without her if 
possible. Pshaw!’’ 

Then he said aloud: “Can not your sister stay 
where she is, and still you come with me?” 

The boy straightened up in a moment, and his 
old, reckless mood returned, as he answered : 

“Oh, Mister, don’t now; I be no priest, you 
know, and couldn’t think of leavin my little sister, 
seein I’m her onl}^ protector.” 

The priest gave a short, bitter laugh and a dan- 
gerous fire burned in his little, black eyes ; but he 
immediately controlled himself, and, laying his 
hand on the boy’s shoulder, said, with evident ad- 
miration : 

“Wh}^ my little man, did you think I was, in 
earnest? I only intended to try you. Bless your 
soul, sir, you will be somebody yet ; any boy will 
who acts like you do. I intend to help both you 
and your little sister, I do. Let me see, let me — ” 

“This be my getting out place,” interrupted the 
boy. And the priest drew up his horse at the en- 
trance of a narrow, dark street, with old, dilapida- 
ted tenement houses on it. 

As the boy sprang out of the buggy Mallory said : 

“Meet me here to-morrow at 9 o’clock and take 
me to see your sister, and by that time I shall be 
read}^ to do something for you.” 

“All right, my pious friend. I’ll be on hand 
sharp,” he replied ; and as the priest drove off he 
walked up to a shop window, through which the 
light reflected, and deliberately counted the pen- 


THE ARAB AND HIS SISTER. 


43 


nies that he had in his pocket. He then went into 
the grocery, made a few purchases, came out again, 
and threaded his way down the dark street. He 
soon found himself at a long row of four story, 
dingy tenement houses. When about midway of 
these he dived into an arched alley which led to 
the rear of the building ; he then ascended a rick- 
ety flight of stair steps which were built on the out- 
side of the houses. 

At last he reached a door on the fourth floor 
which opened into a very small room. The door 
stood slightly ajar, and on the opposite side of the 
room was a rough table, on which was an old cup 
full of melted grease, with a lighted wick floating 
in it. Seated on a stool, with her arms on the table, 
and her head resting on her arms, was a little girl, 
of some eight years old, fast asleep. 

As Henri pushed open the door he cried out 
cheerily : 

“Hi, little ’un, be you asleep, now?” And 
almost at the same moment he tossed his package 
on the table, and caught his sister in his arms. 

The child gave a slight scream of fright, but im- 
mediately recognizing Henri, she exclaimed:” 

“Oh, brother, I am so hungry!” And she 
sprang away from him, and began at once to untie 
the package that contained their meagre supper. 

As the boy watched her, he said : 

“I be oncommonly late to-night, Marabel.” 

“Yes, brother,” she replied as she paused, and 
lifted her deep blue eyes to his face, “and I was 


44 


EARNEST EEIGIITON. 


SO tired waiting for you. And then I did get so hun- 
gry that — that — I almost cried, brother : I did cry 
—I couldn’t help it. But I am happy now. Take 
that sandwich.” i\nd she extended it towards 
him with a laughing shake of the head. 

On some other page of this narrative the personal 
appearance of Marabel shall be referred to. She 
is left on this night listening eagerly to her brother, 
who is narrating with his usual energy, the events 
of the day. He dwells with especial enthusiasm 
on his description of Earnest and Rena. '•‘She be 
no common ’un, I tell you, my little sister, and he, 
O my eye ! /le be very fine, only just a little spoo- 
ney.” 

It was very late before Henri could finish all he 
had to say ; but, nevertheless, he was astir early 
the next morning. And as he swung his blacking 
box over his shoulder, and left the room, he said 
to Marabel . 

“I be going now to meet my religious friend, 
and to see if he’s blowed on me.” 

It was near nine o’clock before the priest reach- 
ed the appointed place. He found the boy await- 
ing him, and they both at once repaired to the gar- 
ret room in which the little Arab made his home. 

After a few common place remarks. Father Mal- 
lory went directly to the main subject, by saying : 

“Well, my little man, I have made arrangements 
for yourself and sister, and I shall take you away 
this mornino;.” 

The boy put his hat on the table and surveyed it 


THK ARAB AND HlS SISTER. 45 

thoughtfully for a moment, and then asked, “where 
be you a goin’ to take us. Mister?” 

“I shall take your sister to the Convent of St. 
Mar}^ and you to my own house for the present.” 

“Whew, now, I be not so certain of that. / 
stick to Marabel.” 

“Oh, you need not be troubled about that,” said 
the priest, “you can see her two or three times a 
month.” 

The boy with his patched and ill-fitting clothing 
drew himself up proudly, his eyes flashing and fill- 
ing with tears, as he said in tremulous tones : “My 
mother use to make me kneel at her sick bed and 
say over and over again, that Fd never leave my 
little sister. And, Mister, Fll never do it. I be 
her only protector.” 

Father Mallory looked at the boy in surprise, 
and something like tenderness was in his voice, as 
he asked : “How long since your mother died?” 

“It be so long ago,” replied the Arab, “when 
Fse littler than Marabel.” 

After a short pause the priest continued : “Well, 
come along with me, and you may see your sister 
whenever you want to.” 

“It be a bargain, then, my pious long coat. So 
hustle up, little sister,” rejoined the boy, and he 
placed his hat on his head with the greatest pre- 
cision. 

In a very few minutes they were ready to leave 
the scantily furnished room, and they followed the 
priest down the rickety old ^eps, and entered his 


46 


EARNEST EETGHTON. 


waiting carriage. As he drove off, he noticed a 
little box, carefully tied with a blue ribbon, in Mar- 
abel’s lap. 

“What is in that box?” he asked. 

“It is my mother’s Bible,” she rejoined, as she 
hugged the precious gift closer to her heart. 

“Let me see it,” he said. 

She reluctantly conformed to his request, and on 
opening the box, he saw a richly bound Bible of 
the most exquisite finish. The following was on 
the fly leaf, in a delicate feminine hand : 

“To Louis and Marabel Langford, this precious 
token is given with a mother’s blessing. Mabel 
Langford.” 

A cynical smile came to the lips of Mallory, as 
he said to the boy : “So your name is Louis Lang- 
ford, is it?” 

“It be, sir, when I am at home ; otherwise, Hen- 
ri Jacques,” he replied. 

The priest became silent, as the carriage rolled 
on through the great city. 


CHAPTER V. 


WHO IS GUARDIAN? 

In the future vve must call Henri by his home 
name of Louis Langford. Altogether, it has a 
better sound, as well as better associations. 

Early on the same morning that Father Mallory 
took possession of Louis and his sister, Mr. Ma- 
lor drove rapidly to the residence of the late Mr. 
Leighton. When he reached the house he found 
everything perfectly quiet, the shutters were clos- 
ed, and there were no signs of life. 

He ascended the steps and rang the bell vigor- 
ously, once, twice, thrice before he received any 
response. He then heard soft steps approaching, 
and presently the door slightly opened, and the 
face of a nun appeared in the narrow aperture. It 
was a round, heavy face, very much like a dump- 
ling, both in expression and shape. 

Mr. Malor started back in surprise when he saw 
this unexpected apparition, but there was no re- 
sponsive surprise in the peering face. Of course, 
it expected to see some one, as likely the minister 
as any other person. 

The conversation was begun by the visitor ask- 
ing the question, “Is Mr. Manning in?” 


47 


48 


fiARNKS'f LEIGHTON. 


“No, sir,” came mechanically from the round 
face in the door. 

“Can you tell me when he will be here?” 

“No, sir,” again. The nun seemed to be look- 
ing at something far away, and from general ap- 
pearances her thoughts were on the same object. 

“Can you tell me where he has gone?” persisted 
the minister. 

“No, sir,” with immovable stolidity and unbro- 
ken monotony. 

The next question broke the formula. “Can I 
see Earnest and Rena Leighton?” 

“They are not here,” with motionless precision. 

“Not here,” exclaimed the minister, with the 
utmost astonishment: “where are they, then?” 

“I don’t know, sir,” placidly answered this 
nerveless being. 

Mr. Malor gazed at her in blank surprise, with 
an incredulous expression stealing into his face. 
But it had no visible effect on her. She quietly 
stood there, looking right through him at some im- 
aginary object in the distance. 

Recovering himself, he plied her with another 
question: “When did they leave?” 

“I don’t know, sir,” she replied. 

There was nothing in these answers to encour- 
age a continuance of the conversation, so the min- 
ister abruptly bade her good day, and impatiently 
walked to his buggy. As he drove away, he glanc- 
ed back and saw the passive face still describing a 
circle in the partly open door. 


WHO IS GUARDIAN? 


49 


Mr. Malor was uneasy and excited. He felt the 
need of counsel, so he drove at once to Dr. Lo- 
gan’s office. He found that worthy ensconced in 
studying gown and slippers, enjoying the luxury of 
a smoke. Mr. Malor hated smoking, and the fact 
that his friend was so engaged did not serve to al- 
lay his nervous agitation. 

He plunged at once into the heart of his subject, 
telling of his drive to the residence of his late 
friend, the object of his visit, the manner of his 
reception, the information he elicited, or rather did 
not elicit, and the peculiar and even temperament 
of his informant. 

This was confounding intelligence to the jovial, 
but irascible doctor. The columns of smoke soon 
ceased to float around his head, as he listened to 
the minister in open-mouthed wonder. And be- 
fore the narrative was concluded. Dr. Logan was 
tempestuous. He sprang to his feet, brought his 
fist down on the table with startling force, as he 
blurted out: “That treacherous priest is working 
to rob those children of their property, and he shall 
never succeed. Do you hear, he shall never suc- 
ceed while Billy Logan is alive.” 

The fury of the doctor had the effect of calm- 
ing down the minister, who innocently asked t “But 
what can do?” 

“Do,” thundered the doctor. why, make 

that Catholic scapegrace bring back those children 
in a hurry.” 

“Yes, but how?” queried the clergyman. 


50 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


The doctor eyed him fiercely for an instant, and 
then he exclaimed: “Wait till I get on my boots 
and coat, and I’ll go with you and show you how P' 

He bustled around his room for a short time, 
then announced himself ready, and they drove off 
together in search of Father Manning. 

They went directly to his home, and their sum- 
mons was promptly answered by a servant. This 
person replied to their inquiry by saying, his mas- 
ter was not in, did not know where he had gone, 
could not say when he would be back. Truly 
obliging was this major domo. He seemed to be 
exceedingly desirous of communicating something, 
but unfortunately for the visitors, he had nothing 
to communicate. He abounded in smiles and bows, 
and showed himself to be altogether a jovial genius. 

Dr. Logan was furious. He thought the fellow 
was acting the hypocrite, and he strongly intimated 
it in his blunt way. 

But the man was impervious. He was possibly 
strong in his conscious innocence. He still insist- 
ed that he knew nothing of the whereabouts of Fa- 
ther Manning, nor could he form any opinion as to 
the probable time of his return. The master of 
the house went and came as he saw fit, without 
giving the servants the least information concern- 
ing his movements. The major domo also express- 
ed his regret that he was unable to assist them, 
smiled pleasantly as he urged them to call again, 
as they possibly would be more fortunate. 

As there was no other course open to them, they 


WHO IvS GUARDIAN? 


51 


acted on this suggestion so far as to take their 
leave. 

“A clever rogue that,” said the doctor, as they 
walked to their buggy. “I don’t believe more than 
half the rascal says.” 

“Unfortunately for us he never said much,” re- 
plied the minister. Then he added : “By the way, 

I give it as my opinion that we had better move 
cautiously in this business, if we expect to accom- 
plish any thing.” 

“He has an office at his church ; let us try that 
at any rate,” responded the doctor. When the}^ 
reached that point, they were met by a small lad, 
but he could give them no information concerning 
the object of their search. The priest had not 
been there for two days, at least, so said the boy. 
When asked who conducted mass in the absence 
of Father Manning, he readily gave the name of an- 
other priest. 

Just here their efforts for that day terminated. 
They were both disappointed, but the wrath of the 
doctor, while as deep as ever, had taken on a much 
quieter form. He had started out with the inten- 
tion of showing Mr. Malor how to do a certain 
thing, and he had already learned that he was not 
competent for the task. 

Immediately following this were many other 
days’ similar experiences. It seemed impossible 
to get any clue to the priest or children. It was 
well known that his place was temporarily sup- 
plied irj his church by a brother priest. But wheth- 


52 


E;ARNEST LEIGHTON. 


er he was still in the city, or had gone away, was 
a question most difficult to decide. 

Affairs remained in this condition, with but little 
variation, for a period of more than two months. 
The minister had not relinquished for one moment 
his determination to find Earnest and Rena. About 
this time he again sought the house of Father Man- 
ning, and to his great surprise found that gentle- 
man at home. He was at once conducted into the 
library, and as the priest came forward to greet 
him, he said: “I have the honor of meeting Mr. 
Malor, I believe.” 

“You have, sir,” was the reply, accompanied 
with a rather stiff bow, as the clergyman was a 
little disconcerted by unexpectedly meeting a man 
whom he had come purposely to see. 

“I am glad to meet you, sir; please be seated.” 

“I reciprocate the pleasure of our meeting, since 
my experience proves Mr. Manning a most diffi- 
cult gentleman to find,” rejoined Mr. Malor. 

“Ah, indeed,” was replied, with a pleasant 
smile, “you have wished to see me some time, 
then?” 

The polite manner in which the question was 
put, and the real, or well feigned innocence of the 
speaker, had the effect of irritating the minister. 
He looked straight at the priest for a moment, then 
asked in a tone that betrayed too much suspicion 
to be strictly courteous : “Are you not well aware, 
sir, that I have wished to see you?” 

The steel grey eyes of Father Manning flashed 


WHO IS GUARDIAN? 


53 


the look squarely back, as he said curtly : “Possi- 
bly it would be as well if Mr. Malor would state 
the object of his visit.” 

“I will do that with pleasure, sir. I have come 
for the children of the late Mr. Leighton. 

“For them P’’ 

“Yes, sir, for them.” 

A cold smile came to the lips of Robert Man- 
ning, as he replied : “If I would not be presuming 
too much, I should like to know by what right Mr. 
Malor makes such a demand.” 

“I make it, sir,” he said impetuously, “by vir- 
tue of the dying wish of both their parents. They 
asked me to be the guardian of their children, 
they were my friends, and I wish to fulfill their 
last request.” 

“They were my relations, of my family and 
blood, and I can not surrender their children into 
the hands of a stranger,” replied the priest in a 
solemn and impressive manner. 

For a second the clergyman felt the weight of 
this reply, but its force was broken by the suspi- 
cion with which he looked upon Robert Manning. 
So he asked bitterly: “Do you positively refuse to 
let me have them?” 

“I must, as I am responsible to God for my own 
actions,” he said, in a tone of profound sadness. 

Again the minister wavered. His better self 
said that the man before him was sincere in his 
utterances, but his distrust led him to view it onlj^ 
in the light of an acted part. As he hesitated, the 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


S4 

distrust grew till it found expression in an insinu- 
ation intensified by a sneer. He said: “I feared 
the covetousness of a priest could not withstand 
the temptation of so large a fortune.” 

Robert Manning gave an almost imperceptible 
start, as he turned his gaze full upon his visitor and 
uttered his scathing reply : “/fear that Mr. Malor 
measures my motives by his own.” 

“My motives, sir, are above suspicion,” said the 
indignant minister, excitedly. 

“Mine are generally, but pray remember that I 
am in exceptional company,” replied the priest, 
with his old, sarcastic smile. 

“I detest your insinuation, sir, for I can estab- 
lish, by Dr. Logan, the sincerity of my motives 
and the truthfulness of my statements.” 

“Undoubtedly you can,” is rejoined with pro- 
voking politeness. 

The minister walked the floor impatiently for a 
few moments, then suddenly turning on Father 
Manning, said : “If I can wring those children 
from your grasp, by the law, I shall not hesitate to 
do so.” 

“And you are welcome,” replied the priest, 
“since the law not only recognizes my right, but 
has already given its official sanction. I have filed 
my bond, and am the legal administrator of my 
deceased brother’s estate and the guardian of his 
children. This statement you can verify by mak- 
ing inquiry at the office of the surrogate.” 

A pained and bewildered expression came into 


WHO IS GUARDIAN? 


55 


the face of the clergyman. On every lineament of 
his countenance was written defeat. He was fatally 
checkmated at the veiy moment when he thought 
he was moving into a vantageous position. He 
leaned on the table by which the priest was sitting, 
and gazed at him with a vacant stare, as if trying 
to determine what to say or do in the present 
emergency. 

The silence was broken by Robert Manning, who 
said, with the easy self-possession of a man who 
had triumphed: “You seem agitated, Mr. Malor, 
take a glass of wine, it will steady your nerves.” 

His manner of saying this was not entirely free 
from polite insolence, and it struck sharply on the 
sensitive ear of the minister. But, controlling his 
rising anger, he replied in even tones : “Thank 
you, I never drink wine,” — then, after a short pause 
— “I had no idea, when I left those children with 
3mu on the night of the burial, that ^mu would take 
advantage of my confidence. But since you have 
done so, will you now do me the favor to allow me 
to see them ?” 

“At present I must decline ^mur request. I may 
grant it at some future time. I must also protest 
against the charge of unfair dealing, because I am 
the guardian of these children according to the laws 
of our State. Your demand would never be recog- 
nized against my simple disclaimer.” 

The minister was conscious of the truthfuless of 
this statement, though, in his excited mood, he was 
not willing to admit its force. He only replied, as 


S6 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


he took his departure: “You have triumphed in 
this instance, Mr. Manning, but the end is not yet. 
Look well to the future, for its revelations may 
be against you and with a bow he was gone. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE Arab’s new home. 

Louis and Marabel were silent as they were 
whirled rapidly along the street. The latter cast 
furtive glances at the clouded brow of Father 
Mallory. That worthy was absorbed in his own 
thoughts. His plans were suddenly frustrated by 
a boy who insisted on observing the request of his 
dying mother. 

Lifting his head suddenly, he said to the coach- 
man : “Drive to my house.” He said this and 
scowled. 

Mallory was the subject of some good impulses. 
These impulses frequently led him to do some gen- 
erous deed. But he always acted afterward as if 
he thought this a weakness, and as if he were 
heartily ashamed of himself. 

Consequently, he always atoned for any noble 
act he might have done by turning it to some self- 
ish account. This was a compensation to himself. 
There was a vein of kindness in the motive that 
prompted him to care for these lonely children. 
On a second thought, this kindness looked to him 
like a weakness, so he soothed his spirit by scowl- 
ing on them. 

In return the boy frowned at him, giving scowl 

57 


58 EARNEST EEIGHTON. 

for scowl. The girl shrank back in the carriage 
with a frightened look in her large eyes. The boy 
had come in contact with the rough world, but had 
always shielded his sister. One was brave, the 
other timid. 

The carriage stopped at a mansion that had every 
external appearance of elegance. It was built on 
the street, and the small yard was surrounded by a 
high wall. The priest stepped out and lifted Mar- 
abel from her seat. The boy sprang unaided to 
the ground after his reckless fashion. The priest 
handed the driver some money, and then they en- 
tered the house, the heavy double doors closing 
after them. 

They followed Father Mallory into a large par- 
lor on the right of the hall. It was richly furnish- 
ed, but the heavy blinds at the windows darkened 
the room. Coming in out of the bright light of a 
July day, the children could scarcely see, and they 
stood in the floor bewildered. Father Mallory gave 
them but little comfort. He only said : 

“Remain here till I return,” and went out. 

The bright eyes of Louis watched him closely, 
but they had a fearless, straight-forward look. 
Mallory did not have the traits that gains the confl- 
dence of childhood. The boy had a vague feel- 
ing that he could not implicitly trust himself to his 
benefactor. He mentally resolved to watch him, 
and confide in his own good fortune that had 
brought him safe through many a difficulty. The 
girl was frightened and pale. 


THE Arab’s new hoime. 


59 

When alone, Louis said to his sister: “Don’t be 
scared, Marabel, I’ll take care of you.” 

It sounded big for so small a boy, but it was an 
earnest utterance and wholly devoid of brag. True, 
he did not understand the character of the man 
with whom he was dealing, nor did he know the 
power of the church that stood back of the man. 
Concerning both these points, he had much to learn, 
but he learned it rapidly and early. 

The girl felt the influence of her brother, and 
she crept closer to him and whispered : 

“I could not bear it, if you were away. I am 
afraid of that man whenever he frowns at me.” 

“Fll watch him,’^ was the only answer. 

Then they were both silent ; one was chilled by 
dread, and the other was oppressed by the strange- 
ness of his surroundings. 

While the children are awed into silence and the 
priest is absent, we will briefly give their past his- 
tory : 

Many years before this there was a handsome 
young minister settled over a parish in the State 
of New^ York. He had recently finished his col- 
lege course, and had gone earnestly to work in 
his chosen profession. His means were limited, as 
he had expended his small patrimony in securing 
his education. 

Hard labor during his college years had greatly 
impaired his health. He thought that the active 
exercise among his people would restore him to his 
usual vigor. In this he was disappointed, for he 


6o 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


had not been with his church a year until his phy- 
sician urged him to seek a home in a warmer cli- 
mate. He reluctantly yielded to this advice, when 
he was convinced that his health imperatively de- 
manded a change. 

In a fair Southern city, he found a congregation 
that wished him to live in their midst, and among 
this people he resolved to make his home. There 
was in this church a young woman who possessed 
the endowment of rare beauty. She was so unfor- 
tunate in life as to lose all her family relations. 
She was alone in the world. Her beauty and gen- 
tleness of heart charmed the young minister, and 
ere long he was a devoted lover. He ardently 
pressed his suit, and before many months had pass- 
ed, it was brought to a happy consummation. 

They lived together four years in the greatest 
contentment, then he was stricken down with a slow 
fever. He left two children, Louis and Marabel, 
the last a mere infant. His dying request was that 
his wife should take them and seek his maiden sis- 
ter, who lived in New York. But by some strange 
mishap, when she reached the city she failed to 
find her husband’s kinswoman. She did not relin- 
quish the search until her money was exhausted ; 
then she fully realized the terrible calamity that 
had befallen her. In a large city without money, 
without friends, without help. But nature had giv- 
en her a strong, brave .spirit, and she at once rent- 
ed a cheap room, and began the weary and painful 
struggle to feed herself and children. 


THE vVRAb’s new HOME. 6l 

Mabel Langford bore up under her misfortunes 
for about three years, then death came and gave 
her rest. Louis was a little lad when he stood by 
his dying mother’s bedside. But she impressed 
this boy with the sacredness of the charge she left 
in his care. Mere child as he was, he promised 
her that he would never forsake Marabel. This 
was done when he scarcely knew the meaning of a 
promise, and yet he never forgot this obligation. 
It grew with his growth, and gradually became a 
part of his very life. And when he said to Mara- 
bel : “I be your protector,” there was in his mind 
the memory of a tragedy, the central figure of 
which was a lonely woman dying. 

Mallory returned, accompanied by a woman who 
greeted the children kindly. She bent her head 
and left a warm kiss on the lips of Marabel. With 
an impulse the child could not resist, she sprang 
into her arms. There was a tear in the woman’s 
eye as she held the slender form close to her. 
Down in her heart was a deep fountain of mother- 
love that must be lavished on other children than 
her own. 

Mallory looked on with a dark, impatient face. 
“Affectionate,” he said, with a sneer. 

This woman paid no attention to his remark. 
She was a tall, dignified person, with a fine face, 
full of expressive tenderness. Somewhere in her 
life there had been a great sorrow, if one might 
judge from her sad eyes and sadder mouth. A ru- 
mor — only a rumor — said she had met with a 


62 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. 


crushing disappointment in her youth, and as a re- 
sult she had taken the veil. But whatever of sad- 
ness and bitterness there might be mingled with 
the secrets of the past, she presented now to the 
gaze of every one a fair and noble life. 

She was dressed in the plain black of her sister- 
hood, and wore at her girdle a bunch of keys- 
There was also a silk cord around her neck to 
which was attached a black cross. The quiet 
goodness of this woman won for her the appella- 
tion of “Sister.” She was never called by any 
other name. Indeed, she was truly a sister to 
every one in trouble. It was an example of a life 
sustained by the high and unselfish resolve to con- 
secrate itself to the service of others. 

She took entire charge of Father Mallory’s 
house, or more correctly, the house he occupied. 
The temper of the priest was always uncertain, and 
he abused nearly every one with whom he had any 
thing to do, still he never spoke harshly to this 
quiet woman. There was something about the 
woman that subdued him, fierce and tempestuous 
as he was. It is strange that he treated her with 
so much respect, especially when we consider that 
he always mistrusted her. She was a devout Cath- 
olic, this he never doubted. That she would use 
all her influence to proselyte any one who might 
be placed under her control, he did not question 
for a moment. But he could not use her as a tool, 
and this offended him. She was the personifica- 
tion of a silent rebuke in his own household, and 


THE Arab’s new home? 


63 


this was not agreeable. Still he treated this woman 
with marked consideration. 

“The Sister will take care of you for the pres- 
ent,” said Mallory, as he turned and went away. 
The children looked brighter when he was gone 
and they were left alone with the Sister. They in- 
tuitively trusted her. 

The woman sat down and drew Marabel to her. 
“Tell me your name, my little girl,” she said. 

“Marabel Langford,” was replied, and the child 
threw her arms across the Sister’s lap. 

“And you have no father or mother?” 

“No, ma’am, they are both dead.” 

“I shall be a mother to you,” she said impul- 
sively, as she took the child on her lap and held 
her in a warm embrace. It was a hungry heart 
feeding itself ! 

Louis Langford looked on approvingly. There 
was a deal of satisfaction in his bright eyes as he 
watched Marabel nestling close in the Sister’s arms. 
In his mind was the happy thought: “Marabel has 
another protector now.” 

The Sister called Louis to her and talked to 
them both in her quiet way. She told them simple 
stories until she had their eager attention. They 
hung upon every word she uttered with childish 
pleasure. All her stories had not only a moral but 
a religious significance. In becoming so truly a 
woman, she had not forgotten to be a Catholic. 

In twent}^ minutes these children loved this wo- 
man — would have done almost any thing for her. 


64 


EARNEST TvEIGHTON. 


She had won this love by her own devotion. There 
was tenderness in every act, and she uttered not a 
single word that had not in it the heart-throb of 
sincerity. Simple truthfulness and earnestness 
were the life and grace of every movement. 

When they had talked a long while, she said : 
“I must go now, but first I will show you where 
you are to stay.” 

She led tlie way up stairs to a pleasant room that 
overlooked the yard, but not the street. 

“This is your room,” she said to Louis. “I will 
take you this afternoon and get you a pleasanter 
suit of clothes. Remember you must always be a 
good boy.” 

She was turning away with the girl, when Louis 
cried out: “Marabel must stay with me.” 

The Sister looked at him silently for a few mo- 
ments, then asked in a hurt tone : “Can you not 
trust 3'our sister with me?” 

The boy looked ashamed of himself, but he re- 
plied frankly: “Yes, but do not let that straight- 
coated man come near her. He always frightens 
Marabel.” 

The Sister took Marabel to a room joining her 
own. Then she went about her duties with a quiet 
song in her heart that had not been there for many 
a day. She had found something to love and she 
was happy. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE TEACHERS AND PUPILS. 

On leaving the parlor, Mallory had gone to his 
own room. It was large and elegantly furnished. 
It partook of the character of parlor, library, and 
office. There were abundant evidences of luxury, 
and many marks of toil. The priest might love 
the comforts of life, yet he was not indolent. 

A small apartment was cut off the farther end of 
the room, and was used as a private office. Here is 
where he held his conferences on deep laid plans 
and secret schemes. The enterprising nature of 
the man frequently called this room into requisition. 

In the main apartment, between the two front 
windows, was a large writing desk. It was full of 
pigeon-holes and ingeniously arranged little draw- 
ers, many of which opened with secret springs. 
Mallory was sitting at this desk, and he took from 
it a small book and made in it a few notes. These 
notes were names and dates. 

Then the priest sank back in his chair and be- 
gan to think. His brow knit until there were deep 
furrows across his forehead, and those small glit- 
tering eyes were almost hid. Still by peeping un- 
der the long lashes, you might see them lying in 
ambush, ready to flash forth at a moment’s warn- 

65 


E 


66 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

ing. In such moods as this he always reached 
conclusions upon which he acted. 

Father Mallory had a habit not unusual among 
men — he would talk to himself when hard pressed 
with thought. 

He muttered : “Have I made a fool of myself in 
taking these chicken-hearted youngsters? Some- 
thing must be done with them : they must be made 
to pay. The church should control children, then 
it will control men and women. These shall be 
made slaves to the will of the church. But my 
policy, my policy !” and he frowned impatiently. 

He began walking the floor, still talking to him- 
self. “The boy will be a power, if he can only be 
controlled. But there is the rub. He is a spirited, 
independent rascal, and will need curbing all the 
time. The little fool will never learn, I fear, that 
some one else may have a better opinion than his 
own. I am afraid the young villain will give us 
trouble.” 

His heavy face, dark and brooding now, betray- 
ed more of his thoughts. He went into his private 
room, and taking a decanter from the side board, 
filled a glass with wine and drained it to the bot- 
tom without removing it from his lips. He turned 
then, and without a word to any one, left the house. 

"^Once in the street, he walked rapidly until he 
saw a passing carriage which he hailed. The dri- 
ver stopped, sprang to the ground, and obsequious- 
ly threw open the door. The priest stepped in, 
gave him a number and told him to waste no time. 


THE TEACHERS AND PUPILS. 67 

They soon reached a large building, surrounded 
by its inevitable brick wall. Mallory told the 
hackman to wait for him, then went to the main 
entrance and rang for admittance. The door was 
cautiously opened, and a monk peered forth. But 
when he recognized the priest, he at once admitted 
him. 

“I wish to see brother Benedict — I know his cell 
—will not trouble you,” he said abruptly, and hur- 
ried along. 

He entered a rude cell with scant furniture, and 
found a monk sitting at a rough table, reading 
Liguori. As the monk lifted his face from the 
book, he presented sharp features, pale in the ex- 
treme, but a high commanding brow. In an instant 
you would have said: “A recluse and student — :i 
man who thoroughly understands books whose print- 
ed pages he has scanned, but who has never stud- 
ied the great book of human nature. And yet on 
a second look, there was something about the face 
that would shake you in 3mur opinion. In spite of 
all you could do, you would find yourself believing 
that those deep set eyes could look down toward 
the heart of things. 

“Good day, brother Benedict.” 

“I welcome you. Father Mallory.” « 

This was the salutation, as the monk pointed to 
a stool on the opposite side of the table. Mallory 
took the seat and bent his sharp eyes on the face 
before him. It was a little like firing sn\all shot at 
an iron-clad. The monk did not quail before his 
gaze. 


68 


EARNEST EETGHTON. 


Presently he said with a half sneer: “Do you 
not think you have dreamed long enough?” 

“The church is my mother, and I am ready to 
do her bidding,” in a solemn voice, and without 
any change of countenance. 

“She has been a very indulgent mother, I fancy.” 

“But her commands have always been obeyed.” 

Mallory changed his tone as he leaned over the 
table. 

“Brother Benedict, the church has for you an- 
other command. You are a learned man?” 

“I have studied.” 

“The oath of your order requires that you should 
use your learning and your talent for the church.” 

“I have kept my oath.” 

“Listen, then. I have in my house two children 
— a boy and a girl. They are young, but all they 
know about religion is heresy. I want them edu- 
cated for the church — educated to do any thing she 
may require. I want them brought to that point 
where they will think only as she thinks, and will 
do her bidding at any sacrifice. Teach them to 
ask no questions, destroy their individuality — de- 
stroy their consciences — make them machines that 
may be manipulated by the church. The church 
ought to be a man’s conscience, his thoughts, his 
individuality, his all. It ought to think for him, 
feel for him, guide him. I hate all this prattle 
about free speech. I want this boy to swear the 
oath of a Jesuit that will bind him soul and body 
to the church. We want servants and not masters. 
Do vou understand?” 


THE TEACHERS AND PUPILS. 69 

“I do.” 

“Will you tengage in the work?” 

“I will.” 

“Do you swear by the holy and blessed virgin 
to succeed at any cost?” 

“I swear,” and he reverently crossed himself. 

“If I fail through any negligence of mine, may 
my soul be forever cursed,” he repeated slowly. 

The cadaverous face of the man betrayed no 
feeling. He sat there impassive, a silent but faith- 
ful servant of the church. His will had long since 
been merged into her will, and his convictions al- 
ways accorded with her interpreted doctrines. 

“When shall I go to your house?” he asked. 

“At nine o'clock to-morrow.” 

“I shall be there.” 

A little later Father Mallory was driving away 
from the monastery, and brother Benedict was ab- 
sorbed in the doctrinal intricacies of Liguori. 

The Sister occupied a room on the opposite side 
of the house from the one reserved for the use of 
Father Mallory. From this room a door opened 
into a small but neat apartment that was assigned 
to Marabel. When night came the Sister took the 
child into this room, and showed her the bed in 
which she should sleep. She gave her a mother’s 
assistance and a mother’s good night kiss. She 
was standing with the light in her hand, waiting 
for the child to lie down, when to her surprise 
Marabel first knelt at the bed and repeated a pray- 


70 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


er that had been taught her by Louis. It was the 
prayer he had learned from his mother's lips. 

The Sister walked from the room in profound 
astonishment, but with a feeling of gratitude at her 
heart. The child is naturally of a devotional turn, 
she thought, and I shall have no trouble in winning 
her to the true faith. It would be unbearable to 
have her die a heretic. 

The Sister had a pure and tender heart, a noble 
and unselfish nature, but in all her life she never 
had a moment’s doubt as to the saving power of the 
church. To be within its communion was salva- 
tion ; to be without was everlasting ruin. It was 
awful to contemplate the consequences arising from 
such a belief, but while she often shed tears over 
the sad condition of so many human beings, she 
never once called in question any position of her 
church. She was so far an anomaly as to be in- 
tensely fanatical in her faith, and intensely good 
in every purpose of her heart. 

She . was a model of devotion. Three times 
every day would she bow before the image of the 
Virgin, and pour forth her soul in prayer. One 
morning Marabel arose earlier than usual, and find- 
ing the door ajar, she entered the Sister’s room 
without attracting her attention. What she saw 
and heard made her open her young eyes in won- 
der. 

The blinds were drawn close so as to exclude 
the light of day. On the opposite side of the room 
was an image of the Virgin, and on either side of 


THE TEACHERS AND PUPILS. 7 1 

the image were two lighted candles, and before it 
the Sister kneeled. Her tall form, with clasped 
hands and upturned face, looked like a spectre in 
the light. The child shuddered, but looked on 
with open-eyed wonder. The Sister was repeat- 
ing the Litany of the Sacred Heart of Mary. 

At the conclusion of the prayer, the tall form 
arose, making the sign of the cross. When she 
turned around, she saw Marabel gazing at her with 
eyes full of silent inquiry. 

The Sister greeted the child with a smile as she 
said : “Come, give me a good morning kiss.” 

Marabel came to do her bidding, but her eyes 
were on the burning candles and the image of 
Mary. 

The Sister noticed this, and asked : “You know 
nothing about this, do you, my love?” 

Marabel shook her head, but only said : “Tell 
me. 

“That I will, my darling. You are old enough 
to learn these things,” and she drew the child on 
her lap. 

“Do you ever pray?” 

Marabel nodded her head affirmatively. 

“To whom do you pray?” 

“To m}^ Heavenly Father;” and a look of sur- 
prise crept into the child’s face. 

“Did you ever see him?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Does he not seem far away?” 

“Yes.” 


72 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. 


“Well,” she said, pointing to the image, “this 
is the Mother of God. Her name is Mary. She 
loves you as her own child, and she has great in- 
lluence with Jesus. You can get very much nearer 
her than you can to God. She Will hear you and 
will plead for you with God. Every little girl 
ought to pray to Mary. Do you not want to pray 
to her?” 

The child shook her head. 

The Sister drew Marabel closer to her, as she 
asked in a persuasive tone : “Will you not pray to 
her to please me ?” 

“I do not know how,” objected the child. 

“But I will teach you if you will only learn. 
Say, wont, you, darling?” 

The child assented in a bewildered kind of a 
way, and the Sister had her to kneel before the im- 
age, clasping her little hands. Then she repeated 
the Litany of the Sacred Heart of JMary, and Mar- 
abel followed her, word for wmrd, in a soft, low" 
voice. 

This was Marabebs first lesson, but the others 
came in rapid succession. Three times each day 
a little form might be seen, with little hands clasp- 
ed, kneeling before an image, murmuring words 
that she knew nothing about. She wtis slowly 
learning the^ alphabet of the Roman hierarchy. 
The Sister was well pleased with the advancement 
of her pupil, and gave her many approving smiles ; 
but no measure of success could make her relax 
for one moment her sleepless vigilance. 


THE teachers and PUPILS. 7^ 

Brother Benedict was punctual in filling his en- 
gagement with Father Mallory. He was at the 
priest’s house early next morning, and at once en- 
tered on his duties. 

He had a willing and efficient pupil in Marabel. 
She learned rapidly, and through the influence of 
the Sister, she became ardently attached to the 
church. No pains were spared to deepen this im- 
pression. The Sister guided her with the tireless 
zeal of an enthusiast. She was more than repaid 
by the rapid advance of her pupil, as well as by 
her oft expressed gratitude. 

But brother Benedict found quite a different 
character in Louis Langford. In the beginning of 
his training he had serious trouble to break him of 
his street phrases. But brother Benedict was an 
austere teacher, and would brook no failures. And 
he drilled the boy so severely that he was willing 
to drop the words for which he had no classic au- 
thority. 

Louis was studious and quick to learn. On this 
score the monk had no ground of complaint. In 
five years from the time that he took charge of 
Louis’ education, brother Benedict could point to 
him as one possessing the highest scholarly at- 
tainments. In this respect he was proud of Louis, 
who had grown into a quiet, self-possessed, cul- 
tured man. 

But with all these advantages, still this pupil was 
a source of grave uneasiness to the monk. The in- 
structions of Father Mallory had been to make him 


74 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


a Catholic of the Catholics. The sworn oath of the 
monk bound him to this issue. But as the years 
went by, he was more and more dissatisfied with 
his success. There was a growing fear taking pos- 
session of him lest he should fail to keep his oath. 
He had tried almost every means that the ingenui- 
ty of man could devise in order to properly impress 
this wayward youth. He had succeeded in bring- 
ing him within the communion of the church, but 
he had failed to fire his soul with a fanatical zeal. 
Louis was far short of a religious zealot. 

In the early years of his training, the monk had 
tried the effect of severe punishment as an argu- 
ment in favor of the infallible church. But the en- 
durance and courage of this youth indicated to him 
his mistake, and he quietly dropped a policy that 
was likely to prove ruinous. 

He had said to himself: “I’ll study the young 
gentleman,’^ and he began his work with all the 
subtle cunning that belongs to his order. He 
brought to bear on this question all the resources 
of his learning and his good judgment of the hu- 
man heart. He had made a blunder, and he was 
fairly in earnest to understand the causes of failure 
and to correct all mistakes. 

He I saw in the young man a nature sufficiently 
religious, but startlingly skeptical as regards the 
old methods of thought. Take him out in the for- 
est, along the great rivers and lakes, among the 
mountains, and his whole soul was enraptured and 
his heart full of worship. Clear, calm nights he 


THE TEACHERS AND PUPILS. 75 

would sit at his window and drink in the silent 
beauty of the starry heavens. It was such times 
as these that he would grow eloquent over the mar- 
velous wisdom manifest in all created things. The 
keen priest saw this and thought about it. 

He had another strong point — or as the monk 
would have called it a weak point — he loved heroic 
men and heroic actions. In every spare moment 
he was reading history, and he never wearied in 
speaking of noble and unselfish characters. These 
had a charm for him that he made no effort to hide. 
The monk noted this and determined to profit by 
the knowledge. 

Brother Benedict began his new policy by yield- 
ing many things for which he had doggedly con- 
tended. Louis had always manifested a strong 
aversion to the confessional. The monk had storm- 
ed about this heresy, as he called it, but now he 
was more quiet, and Louis never went to confes- 
sion only when persuaded by his teacher. It was 
soon evident to the watchful monk that persuasion 
was more potent than force. Almost unconscious- 
ly Louis was going to confession more frequentL 
than he had at any previous time. 

When alone the monk would rub his hands to- 
gether and give expression to a little natural feel- 
ing: “Ha, ha! the spider is spinning his web, 
slowly, fatally — only wait,” and he had a quiet 
chuckle all to himself. 

The monk selected the brightest characters that 
had ever ornamented the history of the church, and 


76 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

kept them continually before the mind of this young 
man. He fixed his imagination by a brilliant array 
of illustrious men. The Catholic Church has al- 
ways been renowned for enforcing her doctrines 
by throwing around them the fascination inherent 
in the great works of art. The monk observed that 
Louis Langford had a poetical temperament, and 
he brought before him the whole artistic wealth of 
the church that he might charm his ardent mind. 
All these were not unavailing, for they were slowly 
and surely mioulding the thoughts of Louis Lang- 
ford. 

The full results of this policy will be unfolded 
in the progress of our narrative. Here it is neces- 
sary to mention only an incident that happened sev- 
eral years after the children began to live with Fa- 
ther Mallory. By the rules that governed the 
household, Louis and Marabel were allowed to see 
each other twice a day, but never alone. A third 
person was always present, who, in a quiet way, 
managed to hear about all that was said. This sys- 
tem of espionage was one of the things that was 
peculiarly distasteful to Louis Langford. 

One day these two young people were together, 
and as usual, they were in charge of a nun. A 
sudden commotion in the street attracted the nun’s 
attention to the window ; Louis, seizing the oppor- 
tunity, detained Marabel, whose curiosity was also 
excited. 

He said, hurriedly and in a low tone : “What has 
become of our Bible?” 


THE TEACHERS AND PUPILS. 


11 


“I have it,” in surprise. 

“Will you lend it to me?” 

“Certainly, but what do you want with it?” 

“Read it.” 

“But the Sister says it is wrong and sinful.” 

“Oh, it is for a pious purpose ; Pm in an argu- 
ment with brother Benedict. Be sure to let no one 
see you give it to me. Keep it about you till a fav- 
orable opportunity is offered. I must have it cer- 
tain.” 

“Yes, but do you — ” 

A sudden sign from Louis stopped her as the nun 
turned from the window. The expression on Lou- 
is’ face was entirely innocent, but Marabel was not 
so successful as an actor. The woman was satis- 
fied that something was wrong, but she wisely de- 
termined to be silent for the present and watch. 
She saw nothing else that evening to strengthen 
her suspicion, but in order to be doubly safe she 
mentioned the circumstance to the Sister. 

The next morning Marabel was cross-questioned 
by the Sister. She kept her secret well, but we 
fear she was less frank than was her custom with 
this motherly woman. At all events, Marabel suf- 
fered some pangs of conscienee and did penance 
for secret sins. 

About six months after this brother Benedict 
dropped into Louis’ room one day unannounced. 
Louis was taken by surprise. He suddenly closed 
a book and made a movement as if he would hide 
it. But he changed his mind and laid it on the table 
in full view of the monk. 


78 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


This book was the Bible. 

There was a momentary gleam in the monk’s 
eye and something like satisfaction in his face. 
Had he spoken what was in his heart, he would 
have said : “I suspected this, my fine young fellow, 
but did not think to catch you so easy. But I knew 
you possessed the weapon by the work you were 
doing.” 

But he said nothing like this, but suddenly cor- 
rected the mistake of allowing any expression in 
his face. 

He quietly took up a Latin work from the table, 
and said in his measured tones : “It occurs to me 
that I should like to change your lesson for to-mor- 
row.” 

He examined the book for a moment, and then 
laid two of his fingers on as many pages, and said : 
“You may prepare these.” 

“Good day !” and with a bow and smile, he was 
gone. 

“He said nothing about the Bible!” ejaculated 
Louis as the door closed. 

“ ’Tis strange, ’tis passing strange.” 

And the young man put his feet on the table, 
whistled a low tune and — thought. 

Bi-other Benedict went straight to Father Mal- 
lory’s room and tapped on the door. The priest 
unlocked and opened it. 

“Ho, my good brother Benedict!” 

“You thought I had left the house?” interrog- 
atively. 


THE TEACHERS AND PUPILS. 


79 


“You did.” 

“But I came again.” 

“What is wrong?” 

“Our cub is growing troublesome.” 

“Why, I thought you had tamed him. You have 
been feeding him on very select diet, I know.” 

The' monk laughed. “I thought I had him in 
fine training ; I had even gained his consent to be 
a priest. I have persuaded him to go often to con- 
fession — a hard task — he has accepted a patron 
saint, and altogether I was very much encouraged. 
But—” 

“But what?” asked Mallory, excitedly. 

“He has a Bible.” 

The brow of Mallory darkened. “By jove, the 
devil is in that fellow. He is everlastingly switch- 
ing off the track, and as sure as death he will get 
us into trouble one of these days. But we must 
manage the young scapegrace some way. That 
Bible wfill be the ruin of him if he keeps it.” 

These two sat down with their heads close to- 
gether and spoke in low tones. They arose pres- 
ently well pleased and smiling. 

Father Mallory ordered his buggy, and when it 
was brought out, he left brother Benedict in his 
room, and went to the apartment of Louis Lang- 
ford. 

The priest said, as he entered the room : “Ho, 
Master Louis, hard at your books are you? All 
work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Suppose 
you take a ride with me ; the open air will do you 
good.” 


So 


EARN£:ST LEIGHTON. 


“With pleasure, Father Mallory.’’ 

“Then hurry up for Veto is pawing to be off on 
a run through the city.” 

“I am ready, sir,” and he put on his hat. 

The keen eye of Mallory saw a Bible on the ta- 
ble as they went out. 

When they had reached the hall below, Louis 
suddenly said : “A moment. Father Mallory, I have 
forgotten my gloves.” 

Before the priest could reply, he had turned and 
was going up stairs two steps at a time. 

“Hang him,” muttered Mallory. 

But it was not two minutes till Louis appeared 
again, drawing on his gloves. 

“All ready,” he said. 

Mallory eyed him closely, but the young man 
appeared wholly indifferent to the scrutiny. There 
came hissing between the priest’s teeth a single 
word so low as to be scarcely audible, “h3'pocrite.” 
There was nothing in Louis’ face to indicate that 
he took the compliment to himself. 

They had a long and pleasant drive, nothing 
worthy of note happening. When the}- returned 
Louis and Mallory each went to his own room. 
.The latter found brother Benedict awaiting him. 

(“Well, my brother, have you euchered the cub?” 

“No !” said the other, “the cub held both bow- 
ers and the ace of trumps.” 

“By jove, a hard hand to beat.” 

“I did not beat it. Father Mallory.” 

“Humph !” after a pause. 


THE TEACHERS AND PUPILS. 8l 

“When I left the room it was on the table.’’ 

“When I went to the room it was not there. I 
say gloves, Father Mallory,” and the brother smil- 
ed after a melancholy fashion. 

“Well, we are beaten this time, but let me think,” 
said Mallory. 

He sat down by the table with his shaggy brows 
knit, and his small eyes looking like two points of 
fire. Presently he brought his clenched hand down 
on the table with a deal of vehemence. 

“Good ! tell me,” said the monk. 

“You go home now and come back late this 
evening, take the drug store in your line and bring 
me some — ” 

“Splendid ! that will trap the young fox.” 

That night, when about to retire, Louis took his 
Bible from his pocket and reflected : 

“A priest is always a schemer; I am studying 
to be a priest, therefore I must study to be a schem- 
er. I shall not always admit this but I am having 
a confidential chat with myself now. I am sure I 
saved my Bible by taking it with me, and I am 
equally sure that Mallory will not relinquish his 
efforts to get it in his possession. I must show my 
adaptability to the profession chosen for me by 
outwitting a priest.” 

He took the Bible and placed it under his pillow. 
Then he retired, and with his strong and vigorous 
nature it was not long till he was asleep. He slept 
unusually sound that night, and the sun was shin- 
ing through the windows when he awoke the next 


F 


82 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. 


morning. There was a strange, heavy feeling about 
his head, and it was sometime before he could 
collect his thoughts. The situation flashed on his 
mind in a moment, and he quickly felt for his Bible. 

The Bible was gone. 

He rubbed his head violently, and muttered : ‘T 
am sure I put it here.” Then he examined more 
closely, but he found no Bible. 

He sat up in bed and thought the whole matter 
over. Presently he smiled, as he said : 

“I have it — chloroform !” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


A LESSON IN ETHICS. 

The monk paid his usual daily visit to Louis, in 
order to instruct him in language, philosophy and 
theology. But no word was spoken concerning the 
Bible. The monk wondered what Louis thought 
about it, and smiled pleasantly to himself. Louis 
was equally curious to know the monk’s opinion, 
for he was satisfied that brother Benedict’s fingers 
had had something to do with the questionable af- 
fair. But they were both silent on the subject, both 
acted as if nothing at all had happened between 
them. Louis had learned one important lesson from 
his instructors — he had learned how to wait. 

During these years Louis had reached man’s es- 
tate. But his residence with Father Mallory had 
been virtual imprisonment. He never left the house 
except in company with the priest or the monk. 
The life and customs of' the outside world were 
alike strange to him. He could not speak to his 
sister without being in the range of watchful eyes 
and listening ears. There was nothing in his ex- 
perience that was common to the experiences of 
other young men. To sit down and have a free 
conversation with some one he knew, would have 

83 


84 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

been a strange episode in his life. It would have 
been like the running brook to the thirsty hart. 

Louis Langford was of an active temperament, 
and he began to weary of this confinement and this 
espionage. The constant friction was slowly wear- 
ing away his patience. He began to cast about 
him for some means of escape. He had an inde- 
fined consciousness that his liberty depended on 
his entering the priesthood, unless he made a 
stealthy escape. The latter alternative was dan- 
gerous and difficult, and not yet suited to his taste. 
A rougher experience might change him in this re- 
spect. There were some things about the former 
consideration that were repugnant to his feelings, 
but it promised an active life that might become 
noble in the service of others. A thought of ac- 
tivity had its natural fascination for him. 

^Brother Benedict noticed this growing restless- 
ness, and it made him fearful for the future. He 
felt no certainty about the issue in the struggle 
with this independent personality. It is unfortunate 
for monk and priest, when they come in contact 
with one who thinks, and who insists on acting as 
he thinks. 

The uneasiness of brother Benedict hurried him 
on ho bring matters to a consummation. It was 
several weeks after the affair of the Bible — indeed 
it had been so long that the monk had quit think- 
ing about it^ — when he called on Louis for the avow- 
ed purpose of having a long conversation. 

This was on the evening of a day that had been 


A LESSON IN ETHICS. 


8s 


more than usually annoying to Louis. He had 
been chafing like a chained prisoner under his re- 
straint. In this nerv^ous mood, impelled by a cer- 
tain restless longing to be free, he was in dange/ 
of accepting propositions that would not accord 
with his real sentiments. 

The monk began cautiously: “In the last few 
weeks I have been studying the statistics of our 
church. Its moral condition is not all that we 
could wish it to be. In this respect we need a 
sweeping reformation. It would improve the tone 
of our holy church, as well as serve recruiting pur- 
poses. I have given this subject anxious thought, 
and have come to the conclusion that the most effi- 
cient remedy is to be found in some eloquent speak- 
er, who may hold a series of meetings in many of 
our churches. We require one who is impressed 
with the ethical and not the doctrinal phase of our 
blessed religion. I have been casting about for 
the right man for such a mission, but so far I have 
found no one wlio is suitable that is not otherwise 
engaged. Now I am certain of one thing, and 
Father Manning sanctions my view, that no person 
could fill the position more acceptably than you, if 
you were only a priest. You have made oratory a 
special study, and you would be an ornament to the 
pulpit of which the church would be proud. Few 
young men meet with such an opportunity to occupy 
a position at once popular and useful. I wish you 
could gain your consent to become a priest and to 
enfraore in this work. It would reflect credit on 

o o 


86 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

yourself, and it would be of service to the church.” 

A ver}^ deep silence followed these remarks. 
Louis had listened with deepening interest, and the 
watchful monk knew he had received a favorable 
hearing. This was the source of some surprise to 
him, as he had expected to contest stubbornly every 
point which he should gain. But to Louis there 
was inspiration in the tliought of addressing large 
assemblies on great moral truths. His communion 
would assure him a good hearing. Even to enter- 
tain the suggestions of the monk caused a quick- 
ened pulse and a flush of enthusiasm. Here was 
the promise of freedom, and also a position tend- 
ered that would at once make him the central fig- 
ure in the whirl of an active life. His face did not 
show all that he felt, but the monk saw enough to 
give him hope. 

“What do you say?” he asked. 

Louis replied with commendable modesty: “I 
am too inexperienced to carry forward such a 
work.” 

“You will soon gain experience,” he rejoined. 
“The work is in harmony with your tastes and ac- 
complishments. Under these circumstances one 
rarely ever fails. The only hindrance is that you 
lack the priestly qualifications, but you can soon 
remedy this if you only will.” 

“You spoke of an oath ; what is the character of 
the oath to which I must subscribe?” 

“I have it here, and I shall read it to you.” 
The monk took from his pocket a printed copy of 
the oath, and read as follows : 


A LESSON IN ET'HICS. 


87 


“I, A. B., now in the presence of Almighty God, 
the blessed Virgin Mary, the blessed Michael the 
archangel, the blessed St. John the Baptist, the 
holy apostles St. Peter and St. Paul, and all the 
saints and sacred host of heaven, and to you my 
ghostly father, do declare from my heart, without 

mental reservation, that his holiness. Pope , is 

Christ’s vicar-general, and is the true and only 
head of the Catholic or universal church through- 
out the earth ; and that by virtue of the keys ot 
binding and loosing, given to his holiness by mv 
Savior Jesus Christ, he has power to depose heret- 
ical kings, princes, states, commonwealths and gov- 
ernments, all being illegal witiiout his sacred con- 
firmation, and that they may safely be destroyed ; 
therefore, to the utmost of my power, I shall aud 
will defend this doctrine, and his holiness’ rights 
and customs, against all usurpers of the heretical 
authority whatsoever ; especially against the now 
pretented authority and Church of England, and all 
adherents, in regard that they and she be u.mrpal 
and heretical, opposing the sacred mother Church 
of Rome. I do renounce and disown any allegi- 
ance as due to any heretical king, prince or state 
named Protestant, or obedience to any of their in- 
ferior magistrates or officers. I do further declare, 
that the doctrine of the Church of England, the 
Calvinists, Huguenots, and others of the name Pro- 
testants, to be damnable, and they themselves are 
damned, and to be damned, that will not forsake 
the same. I do further declare, that I will help, 


88 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


assist, and advise all or any of his holiness’ agents 
in any place wherever I shall be in England, Scot- 
land and Ireland, or in any other territory or king- 
dom I shall come to, and do my best to extirpate 
the heretical Protestants’ doctrine, and to destroy 
all their pretended powers, regal or otherwise. I 
do further promise and declare, that notwithstand- 
ing I am dispensed with, to assume any religion 
heretical, for propagating the mother Church’s 
interest, to keep secret and private all her agents' 
counsels, from time to time, as they intrust me, 
and not to divulge, directly or indirectly, by word, 
writing or circumstance whatever, but to execute 
all that shall be proposed, given in charge, or dis- 
covered unto me, by you, my ghostly father, or 
any of this sacred convent. All which, I, A. B., 
do swear by the blessed Trinity, and the blessed 
Sacrament, which I am now to receive, to perform, 
and on my part to keep inviolably ; and do call all 
the heavenly and glorious host of heaven to wit- 
ness these my real intentions to keep this my oath. 
In testimony hereof I take this most holy and bless- 
ed Sacrament of the Eucharist ; and witness the 
same further with my hand and seal, in the face of 
this holy convent, this day of A. D.,” etc. 

Louis winced a little as he listened to the read- 
ing of the monk, and a few times shrugged his 
shoulders in mute protest against what he heard. 

“Let me glance at the oath a moment,” he ask- 
ed, as he extended his hand. 

The monk gave it to him, and he glanced over 


A LESSON IN ETHICS. 89 

it carefully and in silence. After he had studied 
every word, he asked : 

“How am I to take that oath, brother Benedict?” 

“Why?” coolly. 

“Because I do not believe it.” 

“What?” with sharp emphasis. 

“I do not believe the Pope has the right to de- 
pose heretical kings, princes, states, common- 
wealths, governments, nor do I believe they are 
illegal without his confirmation. I do not wish to 
swear that I will do all in m}^ power to extirpate 
these governments. I should be disloyal to the 
great commonwealth of which I am a citizen and 
of the government which I revere. All my feel- 
ings and impulses, my heart’s deepest and best af- 
fections are loyal to our great and growing coun- 
try. I shall always honor and serve my country, 
and, therefore, I can not take this oath.” 

There was manifest annoyance in the face of the 
monk, but he said, after a slight pause : 

“You are a Catholic, I believe?” 

“Yes.” 

“You believe the Roman Church to be the true 
apostolic church?” 

“Certainly, or I should not be in it.” 

“You believe in the authority and dominion of 
the Pope?” 

“In a certain sense — yes.” 

“In a spiritual sense?” 

“Yes, I think his power rightly spiritual.” 

“The highest claims on one’s loyalty are spirit- 


90 


EARNEST EEIGIITON. 


ual claims. Their appeal is made directly to the 
human conscience. No one can resist such an ap- 
peal without endangering his soul’s everlasting wel- 
fare. Bu; the principles that govern the conscience 
are found in th'e teaching of the church. Now, if 
any earthly potentate should attack the church, 
you are bound by this oath to defend the very 
source of your religious life. This would be your 
plain duty wliether or not you had taken this oath. 
Thus far you are bound and no farther.” 

“But the oath reads different from what you 
say,” urged Louis. “It does not place me on the 
defensive to which I have no objections, but binds 
me to enlist in an active campaign against every 
power that is held to be heretical.’ 

“But you misinterpret its meaning. It is not so 
explained by any casuists of our church. Father 
Mallory has taken this oath, and he has been guilty 
of no disloyal act. Do not adhere so close to its 
letter, but master its spirit. A man’s religious 
faith ought to be the most sacred of all his posses- 
sions. This binds you to defend your principles 
against the encroachment of any government or 
power. Spiritually your head is the Pope, and in 
matters of conscience he has authority and con- 
trol. Here he has the right to take precedence 
of all other sovereigns. But it does not interfere 
with your -allegiance to the authorities of our gov- 
ernment.” 

“The explanation is all right, but the oath is all 
wrong,” said Louis, laughing. 


A I.KSSON IN ETHICS, 


91 


“If you take it in the sense I have explained, 
that sense alone will be binding on your conscience. 
This statement is in harmony with the teaching of 
our wisest and best expounders. You should not 
hesitate a moment for the reasons you assign.” 

“I must have time to think of this matter,” said 
Louis ; “give me a few days.” 

Soon after the monk rose to take his departure, 
and when he reached the door, Louis called him 
back and said : “I have another question in morals 
to submit for your decision.” 

The monk, returned to his seat and waited for 
Louis to speak. He asked: 

“Is it right, under any circumstances, to search 
another man’s room and private drawers, provided 
you have not a warrant authorizing such a search? 
In one’s absence, is it right to take property from 
one’s room, whether or not the property belongs 
to him?” 

The monk was silent for a moment with his eyes 
on the floor. He might have been examining his 
own heart to see if the questions applied to him- 
self. But he answered without reserve : 

“There are some cases in which it would be 
right. Gregory IX said : ‘Be it known to all who 
are under the dominion of heretics, that they are 
set free from every tie of fidelity and duty to them ; 
all oaths and solemn agreements to the contrary 
notwithstanding.’ If the person is a heretic, a son 
of the church is not guilty of sin on account of 
prevarication and deception,’’ 


92 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“But suppose the party is not a heretic, but one 
of the true faith?” 

The monk winced a little, but replied : “This 
of course, would make a difference. But a rule is 
laid down by our casuists which I deem wise and 
right. It is couched in the following language : 
‘An action can not be imputed as sin, unless God 
gives, before it is committed, the knowledge of 
the evil which it involves, and the inspiration which 
excites us to avoid it.’ Now, if you can see no 
evil in the act and have not the inspiration to avoid 
it, I think you would be held guiltless.” 

“This is the doctrine of our church expound- 
ers?” asked Louis. 

“It is,” replied brother Benedict. 

“I am satisfied and have nothing more to ask.” 

The monk left him then, and he sat in deep 
meditation. He said to himself: “I do not believe 
it is wrong or dishonorable, I am sure it is not if 
the monk’s ethics are correct. I am the victim of 
treachery, and in order to regain what I have lost, 
I must act treacherously. It is a sad alternative, 
but I see no way of escape.” 

He slowly arose and stood as one who was yet 
uncertain ; then he left his room and took a posi- 
tion in the hall where he was out of sight and still 
commanded a view of Mallory’s door. He had 
not long to wait till the priest appeared, passed 
down the stairs and out at the front door. Louis 
went immediately into his room, and from a win- 
dow overlooking the street, observed him drive 
away. 


A I.ESSON IN ETHICS. 


93 


“Now, for my unpleasant work,” he said, as he 
began a rapid search of every nook and corner of 
the room. His keen eyes scanned every shelf and 
peered into every aperture, and still he was unsuc- 
cessful in his search. Mallory had left his desk 
open, and he pried into every pigeon-hole and vis- 
ible drawer, but his task remained unfruitful. He 
sat down by the desk, his head on his hand, and 
he felt a keen sense of disappointment, 

“I feel sufficient disgust for the job to merit suc- 
cess,” he said, bitterly. 

After some moments of thought, he began to ex- 
amine closely the pannel work of the desk. To 
his eye there were many spaces to which he could 
see no opening. He tapped the richly carved pan- 
neling, and in response there came a hollow sound, 
giving strength to his suspicion. “Secret draw- 
ers !” he exclaimed, “and I shall find your secrets 
out.” 

He went busily to work, and after an hour of un- 
remitting toil, he touched a hidden spring that 
disclosed a narrow space, containing a single ob- 
ject. 

“Ah ! here it is,” he said, as he took up his sis- 
ter’s Bible. “We are even again, my ghostly fa- 
ther.” 

He went to his room with a sense of triumph 
chilled by a sense of humiliation. The casuistry 
of priests nor the rightful title to property could 
not reconcile his conscience to such questionable 
acts. The more he thought about it, the less grew 


94 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


tlie triumph, and the deeper became the humilia- 
tion. 

In the desperation of his position, he said: “It 
was my mother’s Bible, and her dying gift to my 
sister and myself. I shall never return it to Fa- 
ther Mallory, but shall place it in the hands of my 
sister, where it rightly belongs.” Then he tried 
to think no more about it. 

When brother Benedict returned a few da3^s la- 
ter, he said to him : “I am willing to take the oath 
with the interpretation you gave it. But I wish it 
clearly understood, that I shall take no step that 
will interfere with my allegiance to my country.” 

Some ten da^'s after this the oath was adminis- 
tered, and Louis Langford was solemnly ordained 
to the priesthood. He went home after the cere- 
mony with a sharper pain at his heart than his 
buoyant nature had ever before experienced. 

That night brother Benedict sat in his cell, with 
a smile of satisfaction on his cadaverous face. He 
rubbed his hands together, and muttered : men- 

tal reservation, indeed ! an oath is an oath, and it 
is binding in what it says, and not in what some 
one explains it to mean. Ah ! my troublesome cub, 
we have you in a ticklish place.” 

He supported this unusual glee with a cup brim 
full of wine. 


CHAPTER IX. 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

The revelations of many years have been , made 
since the close of our fifth chapter. -The minister 
is no longer in the prime of life, but is rapidly ap- 
proaching the feebleness of old age. He often 
saunters into the office of Dr. Logan, and not un- 
frequently talks about his unfulfilled promise to his 
long deceased friends. The bitterness of the old dis- 
appointment has not wholly worn away. He has 
never entirely relinquished the hope of eventually 
finding the two lost children ; but the hope grows 
weaker as the years go by. 

Twelve of them have gone already. The summer 
of 1844 was just losing itself in the quiet grandeur 
of the early autumn days. The promises of spring 
buds were richly fulfilled in glorious clusters of ri- 
pened fruit. The peerless days of September had 
come, when the whole earth was bedecked in royal 
colors, and the tranquil days were radiant with 
charming sunlight. 

Jt was that period of the 3^ear, too, when the 
long summer vacation ends, and all the colleges 
throw open their doors invitingly to the youth of 
our country. It was the first day of the session 

90 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. 


96 

for Transylvania, and in the afternoon of that day. 
Quite a large number of students had already ar- 
rived, and they were busy in procuring boarding 
or in seeking an audience with some member of 
the faculty. 

It was still early in the afternoon when two young 
men came out of the president’s room, walked leis- 
urely across the ante-room, and paused upon the 
large stone steps in front of the college. They 
were members of the senior class, and had reach- 
ed the city on the previous evening. For two years 
past they had been room-mates at the boarding 
house of a Mrs. Stanley, and a warm and intimate 
friendship existed between them. 

They were now gazing across the outskirts of 
the city at a grassy woodland that lay in inviting 
beauty only a short distance from them. Gerould 
Wingrove was the first to speak: “Earnest, shall 
we not stroll into that delightful wood and while 
away the hours of this delicious afternoon beneath 
its shade?” 

“A charming suggestion, Gerould, and I am 
heartily at your service,” rejoined Earnest Leigh- 
ton. 

Note well these two men as they move off to- 
gether, for we may meet with them often in the fu- 
ture. The light haired, fair faced, blue-eyed Ger- 
ould, with his warm, genial heart, his laughing lips 
that could grow unfathomably sad in his melan- 
choly moments ; the ardent, tender hearted Earn- 
est, with his high, pale brow under clusters of dark 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


97 


hair, his large, open grey eye, his resolute mouth 
that often smiled but rarely laughed, his manly 
bearing — the one a man for woman to admire, the 
other for her to adore. 

As the\^ walked off arm in arm, Gerould again 
was the first to speak : “Do you remember. Earn- 
est, your oft repeated promise to tell me some day 
the events of your early life ? I feel in the mood 
to listen to its revelations this evening.” 

For a moment they walked on in silence, and 
then Earnest replied gravely: “Yes, I promised 
to tell you all I knew of my past life. See yonder 
knoll, beneath that shady oak, let us sit there.” 
Then with his pleasant smile he continued: “I 
think it a delightful place to give you a few chap- 
ters in my autobiography.” 

Slowly they sauntered to the place designated, 
and threw themselves upon the little hillock. 

Presently Earnest said: “There is a period in 
m}^ life of which I can never think without the 
deepest sadness. Back of that period is a circle 
of perfect happiness, the center of which was my 
mother, my darling, angel mother. Her memor}- 
had been the source of every good motive in my 
life. Its noblest impulses and most generous 
thoughts have been inspired by her words — words 
spoken long ago. There have been moments in 
my experience when the prayers I learned at her 
feet were my only salvation. How often have I 
fancied that I heard her voice and felt her soft 


G 


feARNEST LEIGHTOJ^. 


98 

hand upon my brow ! Oh, my precious mother, 
how have I idolized you 

He yielded only a moment to the feelings awak- 
ened by these recollections, and then continued : 
“My parents had but two children, myself the 
older and my little sister Rena, who was two years 
my junior. My father was very wealthy, at least 
he was so considered, and I am sure we lived in 
splendid style. We had a large house, many ser- 
vants, and everything in abundance. Those were 
very happy days. But I was only ten years old 
when the change came. I wish I could pass over 
this change in silence, and do justice to my story. 
I shall indeed make it brief. M}^ father and mother 
were victims of the fearful epidemic of ’32, and 
my sister and myself were left alone in our orphan- 
age. I was wild with my boyish grief. My old 
nurse took me into the sitting room of my moth- 
er after she was dead, and everything was there 
just as she had left it. I shall never forget how the 
room looked. There were her low chair and foot- 
stool close beside her work table on which she had 
hastily thrown some lace. There, too, were her 
thimble and spools of thread and her needle still 
sticking in the goods on which she had been work- 
ing. I buried m}^ face in the cushion of the chair 
— my mother’s chair — and moaned out my an- 
guish.” 

He arose to his feet and paced to and fro for 
several minutes, then threw himself on the ground 
and resumed : 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. 


99 


“My parents were buried the night of the same 
day on which they died. The family physician 
and the minister of the church to which my moth- 
er and father belonged were both present, and 
seemed to take charge of the burial arrangements. 
Late in the evening two strangers came, of whom 
I then knew nothing, but afterward, to my sorrow, 
learned very much. The most intelligent looking 
was named Robert Manning, and claimed to be 
my uncle. I had never seen him before as I re- 
membered, and I should not hav^e believed him, if 
the minister and old nurse had not told me he was 
my father’s half-brother. 

My uncle, as I was afterward forced to call 
him, refused to allow myself and sister to go to 
the cemetery with the remains of our parents. He 
proposed to stay with us and to take care of us. 

The minister said, in his kindly tone, as he 
took his leave, that he would return the next morn- 
ing, and that Rena and I should go to his own 
home. But to this day I have never seen him.” 

“Have never seen him,” exclaimed Gerould, 
excitedly, “why did he treat you so?” 

‘Ttis altogetherpossiblethathe wasnot to blame, 
but of the real state of the case I know nothing. 
It was late at night, after the companion of my 
uncle had gone away, and had taken with him a 
strange boy who had suddenly made his appear- 
ance in our midst, that a carriage drove up to our 
door. Two nuns were its occupants. My uncle 
told the nurse to get herself and us ready irnmedi- 


roo 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


ately as he wished us to accompany him to the city. 
The old nurse tried to object, but he silenced her 
with a positive order to obey his instructions. She 
led us into the house muttering complaints to her- 
self that she dared not speak to him. 

In a very short time we were ready, and my 
little sister and I went out of our father’s house 
and those black veiled nuns went in. We entered 
the carriage and drove rapidly away. I was utter- 
ly bewildered by my loss, the strange conduct of 
my uncle, and his almost haughty silence. Rena 
clung close to me and sobbed softly, and the good, 
tender-hearted nurse tried hard to console her 
while the tears were falling from her own eyes. 

It seemed to me but a very short time before 
the carriage drew up in front of a dark, solemn- 
looking house. My uncle at once alighted, ascend- 
ed the steps and rang the bell. It was answered 
by a woman who wore a black garb. He held a 
moment’s conversation with her, then came to us, 
and without a word, took Rena and carried her to 
the dark dressed woman. Rena stretched out her 
hands toward me, and with a loud, wild scream 
spoke my name, and then the door closed and I 
heard no more. I sprang from the carriage and 
rushed up the steps, but was seized by my uncle 
and forced back into my seat. I cried out passion- 
ately to know what it meant, and pleaded in the 
wailings of childhood for my darling sister. My 
answer was a handkerchief pressed over my mouth 
till not a sound escaped.” 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


lOI 


Earnest again sprang to his feet and walked rap- 
idly to and fro with his brow knit and his lips tight- 
ly compressed. Suddenly he faced Gerould, and 
throwing up his right hand, exclaimed : “ Oh ! my 
God, I only ask justice — justice for all the wrongs 
I have suffered.” Then he sank again to a sitting 
posture, and buried his face in his hands. 

For a moment Earnest yielded to the pressure of 
his sad thoughts, but recovering himself, began 
again his narrative. 

“The carriage moved rapidly on for many 
squares, but finally drew up before an imposing 
house with its sides and rear guarded by a high 
wall. This was destined to be my place of abode 
for a period of five years. During all that time I 
never went outside of those gloomy walls. 

But I am anticipating the events of my story; 
let us go back to the dreary night when first I en- 
tered those doors. A storm had been gathering 
through all the evening ; and as the night deepen- 
ed the clouds grew blacker and nearer. The wind 
would flare up in angry gusts, and then die away 
with a sad, wailing sound. There suddenly leaped 
from the clouds a flash of lightning brighter than 
all the rest, followed by a terrific peal of thunder, 
and then the rain fell in torrents. 

Just at that moment our carriage stopped. I 
was so cowed by the treatment I had received, that I 
became terror stricken in the presence of the storm. 

I can barely remember my uncle’s seizing me and 
almost dragging me from the carriage into the 


102 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


house. In my utter confusion I did not realize 
that I was leaving my old nurse. I was painfully 
certain afterward of watching eagerly through 
many days for her return. It is scarcely necessary 
to sa}^^ she never came. Gradually hope grew sick, 
and then it died. Miserable indeed is the hour in 
which hope perishes. 

As I slowly recovered from my consternation, 
I found myself alone with my uncle in a richly fur- 
nished library. The’ first thing that distinctly at- 
tracted my attention was his leaning on the mantel- 
piece and looking at me intently with a strange ex- 
pression in his eyes. When he saw that I was no- 
ticing him, he approached me and said, in those 
even tone's with which I afterward became so fa- 
miliar : ‘ My poor boy, you are surely very tired 
and sleepy, you may go to bed at once ; ’ he rang 
the bell, which was promptly answered by a ser- 
vant, to whom he said : 

‘John, this is my nephew. Earnest Leighton, 
you will now show him to his room. ’ The cold 
chills ran over me as I listened to the unconcerned 
manner in which this was spoken. 

But I had little time for reflection, as John at 
once, and without a word, took me by the hand 
and led me away. I may as well say here, that 
the only comfort I received during my stay in that 
house, was through little acts of kindness from 
this servant. He was one of the queer geniuses 
whom I have ever met. When in the presence of 
my uncle, he was a perfect pattern of demure pro^ 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


103 


priety ; but when out of his sight there was a cer- 
tain important air about him, accompanied by 
many expressions which might indicate a guarded 
hatred. 

We passed out into a large hall, and then 
ascended a broad flight of stairs, and again on 
through several other halls until we reached the 
rear of the building. Presently we stopped before 
a door, and John, selecting a key from his belt, 
unlocked it, and, pushing it open, bade me enter. 
He followed me in silence, lighted a solitary can- 
dle that was on the mantel-piece : then he leaned 
himself against the wall and eyed me in a curious 
kind of fashion, as I examined the contents of the 
room. Scant indeed was the furniture — a bed, a 
small table, two chairs, a tin pitcher and a wash 
basin of the same material, and a rough towel. 
Besides these there was a picture of the Virgin 
Mary and the infant Savior, together with an ivory 
cross of some size. I was deeply impressed by 
the difference between this and my own home, and 
it made me very heavy-hearted. 

But my observation and meditation alike were 
interrupted by John, who said : ‘Fll tell you what 
I think, little heretic; I think you’re a chicken- 
hearted little goose, a whimpering baby just now, 
but at bottom you really have some sand in your 
craw. But before you get any good from that sand, 
our holy priest will chuck you into a jug and stop 
you up tighter than a drum.’ 

I have no doubt that I greeted this wise deliv- 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


104 

erance with an incredulous stare. John, smiling 
complacently at my inquiring look, continued : 
‘Well, you are rather a fine chap, and Fm sorry 
for you if you are a heretic. I wish I could help 
you, but I can’t; it’s no use talking. But Fll give 
you this advice, if you won’t tell on me. You 
must never cross them in anything they tell you 
to do.’ 

Just then a bell rang, and in an instant John 
had on his 'pious face, and telling me to blow out 
the candle when I retired, he went away, locking 
the door after him. And I was left alone.” 

There was a pause for several moments, then 
Earnest laid his hand on his companion’s shoulder 
and said: “Gerould, I did but two things through 
the rest of that long weary night — I bitterly wept, 
and prayed over and over again the prayers my 
mother taught me.” As he looked at the fair- 
browed Gerould, with his deep, compassionate 
eyes, he added : .“May it never be the sad fortune 
of my dear college chum to suffer as I then suf- 
fered.” 

Are there moments in our lives when coming 
danger “casts its shadow before,” while it is still 
distant and unseen? It is well to let the future in 
her own good time speak her painful secrets. 

“It required,” continued Earnest, “many weeks 
for me to become habituated to my new and strange 
surroundings. I was left almost entirely alone, 
save only when my meals were brought to me. 
The only exercise allowed me was a small yard, 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


105 

flanked on all sides by the main building and high 
walls, and to this I had access but once a day, and 
then without any companion. I suppose I had been 
in that house some ten days, when one morning my 
uncle came to me, and in his impassive tones said, 
that my sister had suddenly taken sick and died. 
Me also told me that she had been most tenderly 
nursed, and that no curatives were left untried 
which the best phj^sicians could suggest. And 
then, without another word, he left me to struggle 
alone with my terrible grief. 

It was possibly two weeks later when an entire 
change was given to the course of my life. A priest 
suddenly appeared in my room, his round face 
beamed in a jovial smile, and there was a certain 
reckless air in all his movements and in every thing 
he said. He began the conversation by announc- 
ing that he was to become my teacher, that he was 
Father Mallory, that he would be delighted to 
instruct me in all the mysteries of religion, as well 
as in the rich and gifted tongue of the Latins. As 
there was nothing so important as religion, he 
thought he would better begin with that. 

He called me to him, and taking me by the 
hand, began talking in the gentlest manner. He 
asked me about my parents, my little sister — all 
about my home. Then he spoke so kindly of my 
mother that he at once won my heart and confl- 
dence, even while I almost unconsciously shrank 
from something unpleasant in his countenance. His 
questions drew from me all the information I could 


io6 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


give concerning my religious training. At this he 
only shook his head sadly and muttered half to 
himself ‘that time would remed}^ all that.’ He then 
proposed to show me some beautiful pictures which 
he said were in the chapel, and leading me by the*" 
hand, we went into that magnihcent room. In my 
father’s house we had many paintings, but none to 
equal these. He brought me to a representation of 
the Crucifixion, and told me all about it, naming 
the different characters. There was also a most 
splendid paintirig of the Virgin Maiy, before which 
a man was kneeling in the attitude of prayer, witli 
his hands clasped. There was something so quiet 
and solemn about this chapel that a feeling of rev- 
erence stole into my heart, and this was toned down 
to unspeakable tenderness by the gentle words of 
my priestly conductor ; and as he led me back to 
my own room, my whole soul was full of strange 
emotions. 

He came to see me every day, and at everv visit 
he gained some new hold on my confidence. He led 
me so gradually into my studies that before I was 
aware of it, I had my full complement. I was al- 
ways fond of books, and he taught me with the 
greatest patience. Even thus early, after m}^ reci- 
tations, he would talk to me a long while on some 
religious topic. He began by telling me of little 
incidents that occurred in the life of some saint or 
martyr, but presently he dwelt altogether on the 
horrors of purgatory and hell. So terribly vivid 
were these descriptions that I could almost see the 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. IO7 

victims as thc}^ writhed in deathless torment. He 
would enter into the minutest details as to the causes 
of this punishment, and would always close with 
the statement that a good Catholic was safe from 
this danger. 

It required but a short time for this kind of 
conversation to make a deep impression on m3' sus- 
ceptible mind. I grew almost wild. And just at 
this period a little incident happened which was 
not calculated to allay my anxiety. John brought 
me my dinner, as was his custom, and as usual he 
said but little while I was eating. But as he was 
leaving the room, he paused and looked at me sadly 
for a moment and said : ‘Little heretic, I am sorry 
for3^ou. Your pious priest will jug 3mu, certain.’ 
He walked away without another word, leaving me 
wholly bewildered, and at supper time he would 
give me no explanation. But he said as he was 
leaving again : ‘ A boy ought to remember his 

mother.’ 

Some time after this, possibly two months, dur- 
ing the period of my greatest excitement, the priest 
came earlier than usual one morning. He looked 
as if he were greatly depressed or offended, I 
could scarcely tell which. But it was not long till 
the storm burst upon me. He gathered together, in 
one fearful thunderbolt, all the wrathful words which 
he had spoken against sinners and heretics, and he 
hurled them in awful fury at my wicked self. I trem- 
bled like a leaf, and mentally prayed to sink forever 
out of his sight. His scathing words, his burning 


Io8 EARNEST LEIGiHTON. 

anathemas, seemed to pierce my very soul. I was 
horrified ! I could almost feel the flames of purga- 
tory as they bathed my body in their fiery flood. 
It was appalling, it was awful, the power which 
that man possessed. His little black e3’es would 
sparkle and flash, and they would throw a strange 
light all over his face. 

In my unbearable agony I screamed to him to 
know what I should do in order to escape such infi- 
nite punishment. He said I must come into the 
Holy Catholic Church, as safety alone was to be 
found within her bosom ; that I should pray to the 
Virgin and Saints, confess my sins to the priest 
that he might absolve me. He also said that I 
belonged to an old family of heretics, and that it 
would require deep contrition on my part to escape 
the consequences of such fearful wickedness. He 
urged me at once to enter the church with the 
determination of devoting my life to her services as 
a priest. 

For the time being. Father Mallory was victor. 
I would have done almost anything to escape from 
myself. He had conjured up before me a fearful 
image of punishment and death. My whole brain 
was wild and unsettled. Horrible fantasies were 
ever present with me, hovering over me, devouring 
me. I tried to hide myself in the bosom of the 
church ; I sought to lose m3^self in the mysteries 
of my new faith ; but it was all of no avail. I 
plunged deeper than ever into my studies, in the 
mad hope of finding peace and rest, but I found it 
not. 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. IO9 

Months glided away until they had aggregated 
into years. They were miserable years to me, wild, 
mad years. I liad surrendered myself entirely to 
the influence of my priesly instructor. He boasted 
of the progress I had made, and praised my faith- 
fulness and zeal. 

But the time of reaction came — strangely came. 
It was in early June that I had fallen into one of 
my miserable moods of fiery doubting. For three 
nights I had scarcely slept at all, but had walked 
the floor in consuming restlessness. At last, in 
utter exhaustion, I threw myself on my bed and 
slept. And in that sleep, with a vividness almost 
real, I lived over again the days of my boyhood in 
my old home. 

Out of this dream I suddenly awoke to find 
the moon pouring her rays full in my face. I start- 
ed up at once and my thoughts traveled slowly over 
all the vision I had seen in my slumber. There 
came into my heart the deepest yearning to live 
again in the simple faith of my childhood. It grew 
to be more than a yearning ; it swelled in my soul 
till it became the strongest emotion I have ever 
experienced. I sprang from my bed, and vowed by 
all the sacred memories of my old home, that I 
would escape from that hideous place, and by the 
help of the God whom I had forsaken, I would yet 
he a man. 

I seldom met my uncle, and rarely had an oppor- 
tunity of talking with him. But when Father Mal- 
lory came to rn}^ room the next morning, I told him 


r lo 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


I wished to see my uncle, that I had something I 
especially desired to tell him. My request was 
granted, and my uncle soon made his appearance, 
but contraiy to my wish. Father Mallory remained 
in the room with us. 

I told them without any reserve, that I intended 
to renounce the Catholic faith, for the simple rea- 
son that if was contrary to my deepest convictions. 

I also besought my uncle for the privilege of go- 
ing out into the world, and of earning my own 
livelihood. All I asked was freedom ; I requested 
no aid. 

My uncle said, with his cold smile : ‘My son, 
you ask an impossible thing. Remember the irrev- 
ocable vows you have taken ! I will leave you with 
Father Mallory, who will instruct you on this spe- 
cial point, for you are in danger of falling into 
gross heresy.’ And as he walked out, he remarked 
to the priest in a low voice not intended for my ear : 
‘Use no harsh measures of discipline as long as you 
can possibly avoid it.’ 

It is useless to dwell on the stormy conversa- 
tion that followed. I was inexorable, and the priest 
was unyielding. He unavailingly exhausted all 
the power of both persuasion and threats. He 
finally went away in hot wrath, leaving me the 
unpleasant assurance that a fearful punishment 
would be visited upon my obstinacy. 

Well, the punishment came. It was first given 
in several mild forms, but finally culminated in my 
being chained in an underground cell, with nothing 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. 


Ill 


but a little straw between me and the cold rock 
floor. My suffering was alleviated by the con- 
sciousness that I was right, and the ever-deepening 
determination not to 3deld. I sometimes became 
veiy low spirited and despondent, and my agony 
occasionally seemed almost unbearable. I do not 
know how long 1 should have held out, if relief had 
not come in a most unexpected way. 

While lying there one day in my wretched, loath- 
some condition, I heard some persons approach- 
ing, then followed the grating of the key and 
the turning of the bolt, and there stood in my cell 
Father Mallory and a 3mung priest. Each one of 
them carried a light, and when they approached 
near me, I had a full view of the young priest’s 
face, which Father Mallory was closely watching. 
There was combined in its expression, dauntless 
courage, heroic fortitude, and cheerful good 
humor. It belonged to a boy who, when he had 
reached the maturity of manhood, would go down 
to death with a smile for the sake of duty, or would 
become a martyr, without a murmur, in the cause 
of right. It was a noble, open face, full of tender- 
ness and full of strength. As he gazed at me, a 
look of compassion was in his large brown eyes, 
that was a full atonement for the priestly dress that 
he wore, and which I had learned to hate. 

Malloiy sneeringl}' said : ‘Behold one end of a 
refractor}^ priest,’ and he looked at me with a hid- 
eous leer. Then he added : ‘We do this for the 
good of liis soul.’ 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


ri2 

‘Such treatment would damn my soul, Father 
Mallory,’ replied the young man. ‘You are 
aware that I can sympathize with no such bru- 
tality.’ 

‘Silence !’ thundered the priest, ‘you are a 
chicken-hearted little simpleton, and a few weeks, 
wholesome discipline would make a man out of 
you, and teach you how to hold your tongue or use 
it respectfully. Out of here, and that in a hurry.’ 

The young priest made no reply to this tirade, 
but turned his face, beaming with S3’mpathy, full 
upon me, and said, in a low, earnest voice : 

‘I am sorry for you, my suffering fellow-being,’ 
and then, with a proud, brave step, walked from 
the cell. The priest followed him, gnashing his 
teeth in rage, and again I was left alone. 

Many days passed after this event before any- 
thing occurred worthy of note. The darkness of 
night had settled upon the world, I supposed, as the 
gloom in my cell was intensified to deepest black- 
ness. Suddenly there was another sound, save the 
noise of rats, that attracted my attention. A key 
had silentl}^ turned in the lock, and the ponderous 
door swung open with a slight grating sound, and 
then it was closed again. I strained my eyes in 
vain to see the person who had come in. I bent 
forward and listened eagerly, but no sound fell 
upon my ear. Unable to restrain my anxiety, I 
cried : ‘Who is there ?’ 

Immediately there was a movement toward me, 
and a voice said — a v-oice that I shall never forget : 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


II3 


‘Be quiet, I have come to help y;ou.’ 

I was never so agitated in my life. I could only 
breathe out, ‘God bless you.’ I trembled so vio- 
lently that my whole frame was in a quiver. 

My deliverer said in a cheerful tone : 

‘Keep cool till I strike a light, and I will free 
you.’ 

He at once lighted a candle, which revealed to 
me the features of the young priest who had been 
to my cell several days before. I had recognized 
his voice when he had first spoken, and I should 
ki.ow it now. 

He held up the. candle so that it threw its flick- 
ering rays all over the cell, then he said, with a 
quiet smile : 

‘I have some acquaintances who keep better 
quarters than you, my friend.’ 

‘For the love of — of heaven, get me away from 
here,’ I gasped. 

‘Oh ! I intend to do that, only calm down a lit- 
tle. I can never run the gauntlet with 3mu, unless 
you keep as cool as — as, well, say a cucumber,’ 
he replied, in the same encouraging tone. 

Then he suddenly bent down, and taking me by 
the foot, added : 

‘Oh, ho ! So you are fast by this underwalker, 
are you? All right, while you screw up your 
courage to the escaping point, I shall just amute 
myself by filing this ring in two.’ 

He thrust his hand into the pocket of his priestly 
robe and produced a three-cornered file, with 


H 


EARNEST EEIGIITON. 


II4 

which he at once set to work, but talking all the 
while. There was something half comic in his 
manner, although he was telling me of the escape 
of several historic characters from prison. But all 
the time he was speaking so rapidly, I was trying 
to determine what there was about him that 
appeared so familiar to me . I gradually reached the 
conclusion that I had met him before, and under 
very peculiar circumstances. But where and when ? 
These questions I could not answer till the chain 
fell from my ankle, and he sprang to his feet and 
said with a little laugh : ‘There, my covey, you 
be tree now.’ In a moment the entire surround- 
ings of our former meeting flashed upon me. I 
knew who he was, though I knew not his name. 

He immediately became very serious, and said, 
in a low, earnest tone : 

‘Listen ! I have voluntarily undertaken to assist 
you in escaping. The effort is attended with great 
danger to both of us. To fail is ruin. I want you 
to keep close to me, move silently, and obey every- 
thing I tell you without a word. Will you do it?’ 

I gave the required promise, but, before starting 
I asked him to tell me to whom I was indebted for 
my very life. 

‘Your life is not yet saved ; when it is, there 
will be time enough for thanks. Now follow me.’ 

He examined the door carefully, then blew out 
the candle and said in a whisper: ‘Keep close.’ 
I followed him out of that Ibnely cell, feeling that 
my limbs could scarcely bear me ; but I gained 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. 


II5 

strength and confidence as I moved along, and 
a fierce determination took possession of me to 
escape or die. 

We threaded our way slowly along those low, 
dark archways, searching eagerly for the outlet to 
the upper part of the building. Suddenly the young, 
priest stopped and said : 

‘I believe I have lost my way. These diagonal 
aisles, intercepting those crossing at right angles, 
have confused me, though I noted them carefully 
when I came in.’ 

We both remained silent for a few moments, 
when he asked : 

‘Do you know anything about the location of the 
trap door?’ 

I was forced to give a negative answer, for 1 had 
been carried to my dungeon blindfolded. 

My companion did not seem the least excited, 
but was whistling softly, so low, indeed, that I could 
scarcely hear him. Presently he said : 

‘ Let us try this way,’ and started off with silent, 
cautious tread. But after a short time he paused 
again, and murmured, ‘Lost, certain.’ 

The words were scarcely uttered, when we 
heard the chimes of a clock in the hall above us. 
The young priest seized my arm and whispered, 
‘All right, so far; the clock is by the trap door; 
come on.’ 

We were soon ascending the steps, and cautiously 
opening the door, passed silently into the lighted 
hall. My companion made a quick sign for me to 


Il6 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

follow him, and moved away rapidly, but pausing 
every few moments to listen intently. In less than 
live minutes we were in the open space in rear of 
the main building. But here we were confronted 
with a new and unexpected danger. A solitary 
figure was walking away from us across the narrow 
3)Tird ; we knew he must soon turn in his promenade 
and approach us. The first impulse was to retrace 
our steps through the door, but a spring lock had 
closed that avenue of escape. 

I felt that all was lost when all was so near 
gained, and I really believe I should have given up 
in despair, if I had been alone. But not so with 
my guide. He said, ‘Quick,’ and ran hastil}^ to 
the opposite side of the enclosure, and then ‘Down,’ 
and we both crouched close to the wall in the 
deepest shadow. 

The clouds were too thick for the moon to give 
much light, yet when the man approached us, I could 
easily recognize Father Mallory. He continued to 
walk to and fro what seemed to me an age. Every 
now and then he would come very near us, and I 
felt sure we would be discovered, but he was 
absorbed in thought, and the dark shadow pro- 
tected us. To our great joy he finally went into 
the house and closed the door behind him. 

Immediately my companion was on his feet, and 
picking up a small stone tossed it over the high 
wall. Almost instantly it was answered by a low 
whistle, followed by a rock falling near us to which 
was attached a string. Soon we had a rope in our 


EARNEST Ll^IGHTON. 


II7 

possession, and in a very few moments afterwards 
we were standing safe on the street. There was a 
i*"igged urchin who had undoubtedly helped us in 
our escape, and his greeting was : ‘Golly, I’se glad 
you'se out.’ 

The young priest kindly bade him run away, and 
taking me by the arm led me some distance to an 
unobserved place in the shadow of an old rickety 
building. Then he said in his rich, tender tones : 
‘Here is a purse of money, you can not get away 
without it. Your only hope is in leaving the cit}^ 
to-night and observing secrecy and caution wher- 
ever you go. Hungry wolves that have tasted blood 
would not hunt you more fiercely than you will be 
hunted to-morrow. Even I,’ he said bitterly, ‘will 
be forced on your track. I can be of no more ser- 
vice to you, but you must go now, and may God 
bless you and guide 3mu.’ 

As he ceased to speak he held out his hand which 
I grasped, almost overcome by my feelings. ‘Tell 
me, before I go,’ I said, ‘to whom I owe my free- 
dom and my life.’ 

‘We have met before,’ he replied, ‘and some- 
thing tells me that we will meet again. Then it 
may be that you will know my name ; but again 
farewell, for }’ou must hasten away.’ 

I watched him as he walked from me, till, turning 
a corner, he passed from sight, and then I — went, 
I knew not whither. I wandered out of the city, 
and when morning came it found me in the open 
countr3G I spent that day in a rick of straw which 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

some thrifty farmer had prepared for his cattle. I 
pressed forward again at night. But it is useless 
for me to dwell here, as all the days and nights at 
this time were very much alike. I occasionally met 
with an adventure, and frequently suffered from 
hunger and exposure. 

At the end of five weeks, I found myself in Bour- 
bon county, Kentuck}^ and my little stock of money 
entirely exhausted. I reached there one evening 
about dusk, and approached a farm house in the 
fork of Hinkston and Stoner. It was a most beau- 
tiful place, and, in my wearied condition, I felt that 
I should love to rest there through all my life. 

As I drew near the house, I saw a lady and 
gentleman sitting in the large veranda, and when 
I came up they both greeted me kindly. My heart 
was throbbing up in my throat, and I could scarcely 
speak at all, but I managed at last to tell them that 
I was poor, without home or friends, and that I 
wanted some place to work, that I might earn a 
living. 

My reserve melted away at once before the open- 
hearted frankness and gentleness of the lady, and 
I presently found myself talking freely to both of 
them. I was prudent in revealing facts connected 
with my past life, and only communicated enough 
to establish me on a good footing with Mr. and Mrs. 
Rodman. 

It is useless to pursue my story any further. 
From that time till now, their home has been mine. 
I can only pay to them a tribute of grateful 


earnest LEtGHTON. 


119 


acknowledgment for their unbounded kindness and 
generosity. But the first night I spent in their house, 
I registered again the vow I had made in my dark 
prisoner’s cell, that, by the help of God, I would 
be a mmi, I have positively refused to accept 
charity, but by the labor of my own hands I have 
earned the means that have passed me thus far 
through college. 

I have told you, in my broken way, the story of 
my life to the present time. It has had in it much 
that was sad, and also much that was bright and 
joyous. I have no complaints to utter, thbugh I 
have some wrongs to right, for I have not yet for- 
gotten my sister.” 

“But,” said Gerould, “they told you she was 
dead.” 

“Yes, they told me so,” replied Earnest, bitterly. 
“But it is time we were returning ; shall we not go ?” 

Arm in arm the young men walked back to their 
boarding house. As they reached the gate, they 
noticed three ladies standing on the veranda, two 
of whom they recognized as their hostess and her 
neighbor, Mrs. Livingston, but the other was a 
young lady and a stranger. The ladies retained 
their position until the young gentlemen came up, 
when Mrs. Stanley introduced them to Miss Lang- 
ford, of New York, and then added archly, “Miss 
Marabel has come to spend some months with her 
friend, Mrs. Livingston.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE PRIESTS IN COUNCIL. 

Again we must conduct our readers to the city of 
New York, at a period somewhat earlier than that 
in which the events of the last chapter occurred. 
A most thorough search immediately followed the 
escape of Earnest, and was continued with wonder- 
ful persistency, but for a long while all efforts in 
that direction had apparently ceased. Father 
Mallory at once suspected John as having been 
instrumental in effecting the prisoner’s escape, but 
the confidence of Robert Manning in his servant 
was unshaken, and his authority alone saved him 
from punishment. No suspicion ever fell upon the 
young priest. 

It is necessary here to make a few general state- 
ments in order to get the proper connection of our 
narrative. Very early in the present century a con- 
flict arose between the Catholic Church and our 
public school system. The school system was then 
in its infancy, and was virtually on trial as a public 
experiment. It was slowly growing into great favor 
with the American people, and was surely prepar- 
ing itself for the mighty growth which has charac- 
terized it during the last few years. 

But the founders of our public schools did not 
120 


THE PRIESTS IN COUNCIL. 


I2I 


fully comprehend the all-important issues involved 
in their measures. They did not clearly draw the 
line of demarkation between Church and State, and 
even yet this line has not been fully drawn. Till 
this point has been finally settled, the question will 
be open for discussion, and it will receive the meas- 
ure of attention that its importance demands. 

Originally in the city of New York, the public 
school money raised was distributed “to the trus- 
tees of the Free School Society, the Orphan Asy- 
lum Society, the African Free School, arid the trus- 
tees of such incorporated religious societies as then 
supported, or should establish charity schools 
within the city.”* 

It did not require a great length of time to demon- 
strate that this was to all practical purposes, a reli- 
gious system of education. It was impossible for 
it to give anything like general satisfaction, there- 
fore it soon became apparent that a change must be 
effected. 

“In 1824 the Common Council of New York ‘was 
authorized, once in three years, to designate the 
institutions and schools which should be entitled to 
receive the school moneys.’ ” This placed' the 
whole matter in charge of the Common Council. The 
money was distributed to the Public School Societ}^ 
the Mechanics’ Society, the Orphan Asylum, and 
the Catholic Benevolent Society. All these 
institutions were unsectarian, save the latter. 

This condition of affairs give very general satis- 

* We are greatl v indebted to the periodicals of Harper & 
Brothers for manv facts contained in this sketch. 


122 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


faction, though by no means universal. And, as 
strange as it may appear, the Catholics, who were 
the only religious body receiving aid, were the main 
objectors. These were determined to break down 
this system in New York, and, in 1840, they began 
the assault. Several characters in this narrative 
were active in pressing forward these measures to 
their consummation. 

Early one sultry morning in July, 1840, Father 
Mallory was walking slowly along one of the prin- 
cipal streets of New York. As he sauntered on, 
he would occasionally take out his watch, half 
mechanically, as if he had an appoinpuent at a cer- 
tain hour, and rhust get there precisely on time. 
The priest’s face, heavier than it was eight years 
before, wore the expression of perplexed thought. 

At last he reached the residence of Father Man- 
ning, and, having scrutinized his watch again, 
passed up the steps and rang for admission. He 
was at once conducted into a large room where he 
found several gentlemen already assembled . Prom- 
inent among them was Bishop H — , who was 
renowned for his ability and eloquence. 

Soon after Father Mallory’s arrival, the meeting 
was called to order with the Bishop presiding. 
He stated that they had met to consider the rela- 
tion of the public schools to the interests of the 
Catholic Church. He also laid before them fully 
the evils that might probably result to the church 
from this institution, if it were not promptly put 
under restraint. He urged the necesssity of active 


THE PRIESTS IN COUNCIL. 1 23 

measures against this new enemy that was rising to 
threaten their holy religion. 

There was a perfect unanimity of sentiment on 
all that was said. There were several lines of pol- 
icy suggested, discussed and rejected ; but Robert 
Manning advocated the following, w^hich received 
the hearty approbation of the Bishop : Let the 
“trustees of St. Patrick’s, St. Peter’s, St. Mary’s 
and other schools of like names, apply to the Com- 
mon Council for a share of the school moneys 
raised by taxation.” “This claim,” said Father 
Manning, “must be energetically pressed, for we 
must either break down the system or carry this 
measure ; and, in the event we carry it, we have 
just what we want — a ruined School-Society. The 
knell of the public schools is sounded the very 
moment that division of the school fund is made 
among the different religious bodies.” 

Father Mallory, in a brief speech, advocated the 
same views, and closed wdth the suggestion that, 
for the following Tuesday evening, a general meet- 
ing should be called to set forth, in resolutions, the 
sentiments expressed in the present gathering. 
This suggestion was taken by consent and the meet- 
ing duly appointed. After some words of encour- 
agement and exhortation, the Bishop adjourned the 
meeting until the following Tuesday evening. 

When the appointed time came, quite a large 
number of men had collected at the place of meet- 
ing. The Bishop made a lengthy introductory 
speech, setting forth the reasons why Catholics 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


124 

should be apprehensive of the continuance of the 
Public School-Society, as at present administered. 

The meeting was enthusiastic, and the committee 
on resolutions offered, among several others, the 
following: “That the operation of the common 
school system, as the same is now administered, is 
a violation of our civil and religious rights. 

That we should be unworthy our proud distinc- 
tion as Americans and American citizens, if we did 
not resist such invasion by every lawful means in 
our power.” 

These resolutions were received with great 
applause, and several fiery speeches were made in 
their favor. Robert Manning, in his clear-cut, 
crystal sentences, and Father Mallory, in his abrupt, 
impetuous way, had added each his influence to the 
strong current that was sweeping on without 
encountering a single obstacle. To all appear- 
ances, the meeting would close without the raising 
of a single dissenting voice. 

But when they had reached that point where a 
breathless pause ensued, as if all arguments had 
been exhausted and nothing remained but to put 
the question, an event occurred that showed at least 
one objector to the measures before the meeting. 

A young man, in priestly dress, who had been 
sitting a quiet, unobserved spectator of the pro- 
ceedings, suddenly arose and addressing the Chair 
said : 

“As a member of the Catholic communion, and 
as a citizen of proud America, I wish to enter my 


TJfir PRIKSTS IN COUNCIL. 1 25 

solemn protest against the measures which have 
this evening been advocated. The glory of our 
free institutions can be preserved only by an 
enlightened citizenship ; and this can be assured 
only by public instruction. Neither private nor 
denominational schools can meet the ever increas- 
ing demand, and our only hope lies in the willing- 
ness of the State to train her ignorant children — 
and train them for her own preservation. I fail to 
see in what respect it is a ‘violation of our civil and 
religious rights,’ as the resolution specifies and as 
several gentlemen bn this floor have so eloquently 
claimed. To me it is an establishment of those 
rights and the sure guarantee that they will be trans- 
mitted to the coming generations of our country, 
and will confer upon the nation’s future children 
the same blessings that we now so abundantly enjoy. 
I am free to claim here that our public school sys- 
tem is the bulwark of our national freedom, stronger 
than all of our bayonets, and armaments, and 
fortifications. 

But, my Catholic fellow-citizens, there is a deeper 
reason still why I object to these resolutions. 
They are wrong, and for that reason should not be 
entertained for a single moment. It is the specta- 
cle of a great church, in the most splendid repub- 
lic of all the ages, arra}'ing herself against an insti- 
tution which is necessary to the very existence of 
that republic. The spirit which animates our gov- 
ernment is inimical to any collusion of Church and 
State, and yet the motive back of all our actions 


126 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


this evening is to place the church in such a rela- 
tion to the Common Council of this city that it will 
become a parasite, drawing a large measure of its 
life from the public treasury. The whole proceed- 
ing is wrong, fatally wrong. I appeal to you as 
honorable men, if you would not resist such a step 
on the part of any Protestant church with all the 
elotpience of your tongue and the caustic of your 
pen. The public schools are not necessarily op- 
posed to the glorious doctrine of the Catholic 
Church nor are they legitimate barriers to her 
prosperity and reaown ; and while 1 love the church 
and will defend her, still I also love my nation’s 
schools, and, as a patriotic citizen, will ever be their 
champion and advocate.” 

Scarcely had the young man ceased to speak till 
Mallory was on his feet, his whole face ablaze and 
his little eyes almost emitting sparks of tire, and, 
vehemently shaking his fist, cried out : “The ingrate, 
listen to the ingrate ! I took him when he was a 
stammering, shabby little monkey, and clothed him, 
and fed him, and educated him, and now see what 
he is — ingratitude, base ingratitude.” The last 
words were uttered in a shriek and with dramatic 
emphasis. 

For a few moments there was great excitement 
in the house. Some were hissing and sneering at 
the youthful speaker, and others were gesticulating 
violently, while there were loud cries of “Hear, 
hear ;young Father Louis has taken the opposition.” 

With some difficulty the Bishop restored order, 


thp: priests in council. 127 

and again Fatlier Louis, as he had been called, 
rose to speak. His clear voice penetrated to every 
part of the room as he said : “When my sister and 
I were lonely orphans, with the bitter heritage of 
poverty, in a great city, when we were ragged, and 
hungry, and friendless. Father Mallory came to us 
and through his generosity we have received all the 
necessaries of life and the advantages of culture. 
We have never ceased to be grateful. In the out- 
bursts of passion which sometimes come to him he 
has inflicted on us severe punishment, and has laid 
us under the harsh tribute of many a penance ; he 
has insisted on our fulfilling missions for the church 
of which we knew nothing — all of these have we 
cheerfully borne, because he was to us a preserver 
and protector. We shall be in the future, as we 
have been in the past, his steadfast, faithful chil- 
dren. But neither now nor ever can Father Mallory 
become to us the supreme director of our con- 
sciences. That the resolutions before this house are 
wrong, is my own individual judgment, and by that 
judgment I propose to stand.” 

When Father Louis took his seat, a dozen men 
sprang to their feet, clamoring to be heard. The 
quick, though quiet movement of Robert Manning 
enabled him to gain the recognition of the Bishop, 
and he began to speak in his calm, incisive tones : 

“Our good Father Louis is very young, as you 
all would readily perceive from the speech he has 
made. The best reply to his remarks is a little 
experience on his part. W^ c^^n not waste time 


128 


I2ARNEST EEJGIITON . 


now with the declamation of our boys” (this was 
said with an icy smile.) “I have only one word to 
say on the merits of the resolutions. If the pub- 
lic schools do not exclude sectarianism, they are 
no more entitled to the school funds than are we, or 
any other denomination of professed Christians ; if 
they do exclude sectarianism, then we contend that 
they exclude Christianity.’* In either case our 
claim is just and right, and I therefore call for the 
question.” 

Cries of “question, question,” were heard in all 
jrarts of the house, and the motion was immediately 
put by the Bishop. There was a demand for a 
standing vote, and the immense audience rose as 
one man, save only Father Louis, who liad the 
courage to stand alone when the negative was c died. 

It is only necessary for us to chronicle one more 
fact in connection with the business transacted at 
this meeting; and this very fact is the link that 
joins all of this turbulent scene with the events of 
our story. 

After much irrelevant speaking, it was at last sug- 
gested that money must be obtained from some 
source, in order to press successfully this claim. 
It was clearly argued that the profits accruing 
from its triumphant consummation would more than 
coyer all probable risks in raising the necessary 
funds. Besides, there were other enterprises, near 
or remotely connected with this one, for which 


* This dilemma, in almost tlie very language, was in the memo- 
rial offered by the Cathol.cs to tlie Common Council in 1840. 


THE PRIESTS IN COUNCIL. 1 29 

capital must be had ; and in the event that the 
money raised should not be required here, it would 
be found to fill a financial vacuum created by some 
other movement of this most remarkable church. 

It so happened that Fathers Llanning and Mal- 
lory were selected as a committee on finance ; and 
after this action the meeting adjourned, subject to 
the call of the Bishop. Arrangements were made 
by these two priests that they should meet on the 
following morning at the residence of Robert 
Manning. 

On the next day Father Mallory was punctual in 
filling his appointment. The freshness of the early 
morning had not passed away before he and Rob- 
ert Manning were earnestly discussing the interests 
of the church. But, strange as it may seem, the 
first subject considered was not the one on which 
they were appointed a committee. 

There was a flush of excitement on Mallory’s 
cheek, and something disturbed in his manner, but 
the old cunning was hidden in his little eyes, ready 
to flash forth with baleful light the moment he was 
victor. He approached the business with this remark : 
“Some excitement at our meeting yesterday.” 

“A little,” dryly responded Robert Manning, 
whose face wore its usual impenetrable calm. 

“The church is to have a new Luther, or some 
other kind of reformer, I suppose,” said Mallory 
with a half sneer. 

“Oh ! you refer to our young Father Louis,’ 
replied Manning with his cold smile. 


136 


Earnest LEiGtttoN. 


“Yes. He is too conscientious by half for his 
own good or ours either.’^ 

“You educated him, I believe,” retorted Robert 
Manning. “That fact possibly accounts for his 
remarkable moral development.” 

Mallory winced a little under this taunt, but 
promptly replied : “I have always deemed it a mis- 
fortune that I did not have charge of the training of 
some other of my brother priests.” 

“Ah!” ejaculated Father Manning. Then there 
was silence for a few moments, which was broken 
by Mallory : 

“Father Louis is a young man of remarkable 
ability, and is capable of doing us great service, or 
bringing on us a world of reproach. Do you not 
think so?” 

“Yes,” slowly responded Robert Manning. “I 
have been watching him closely for a long while, 
and am fully persuaded that it will require wise and 
delicate treatment to make him subserve our 
interests.” 

“Listen,” said Mallory, as he drew his chair 
closer to his companion. “I have a plan by which, 
I think, we can readily manage him ; a plan, by the 
way, in which his conscientious scruples will be in 
our favor. Make him assistant confessor at the 
Convent of St. Mary. You would say he is too 
young, but hold. I’ve thought all about that. 
Through the influence of the Bishop, the Pope will 
grant the necessary dispensation, and on this count 
his piety will be of the greatest value. Once 


'The priests in council. i3f 

accomplish this measure and he is virtually on the 
shelf. He is a handsome young fellow, and you 
may rest assured that there will be no slackness on 
the part of the nuns in confessing. I think we can 
keep him so busy that he will not have time to 
trouble us on other scores. What do you say to 
the project, my good Father Manning?” and in his 
eagerness, Mallory leaned forward till his flushed 
face was close to that of the other priest. 

An expression of surprise was never seen on the 
face of Robert Manning, but the thoughtful caste of 
his countenance indicated that the suggestion was 
unexpected. He remained silent, as if carefully 
weighing every word that had been spoken. 

“Well,” exclaimed Mallory impatiently, “what 
have you to say?” 

“I think it a prudent measure, if the Pope will 
grant the dispensation ; otherwise you know he is 
too young.” 

In his excitement, Mallory rose to his feet as he 
said : “You will join with me in getting the consent 
and recommendation of the Bishop?” 

“Yes, I will do my best.” 

“Then it is a success. I know it,” cried Mallory, 
joyfully. “We will secure a good riddance of my 
troublesome frotege^'' and he rubbed his hands in 
glee. After a short pause, he added : “I am ready 
now to talk about our money matters.” 

“Have you matured any plans on that subject?” 
asked Father Manning. 

“None,” is the reply, “unless some portion of 


132 


RARNKST LETGTITON. 


the Leighton estate may be made available.” As 
he gave this reply, Mallory’s cunning eyes were 
narrowly watching the face of Father Manning. 

“I have thought about that,” was the rejoinder, 
“and while I dislike to take such a step, still I see 
no other way open. The regular contributions 
from our parishioners can scarcely be increased ; 
we have exhausted for the present the resources of 
fairs and festivals, and I do not think it would be 
prudent to make another demand on the generosity 
of the public so soon after the thorough canvass for 
our new cathedral. Taking all things together, I 
can see no other way to get the desired amount of 
money, unless we draw on the Leighton estate.” 

“And why not?” said Father Mallory. “I think 
you have been unnecessarily prudent about the mat- 
ter anyhow. If I had been in your place, I can tell 
you that the yellow gold of William Leighton would 
have jingled into our coffers long ago.” 

“You forget,” replied Manning, “that the eyes 
of Mr. Malor and Dr. Logan are sharply watching 
me. I also understand that they have an eminent 
member of the bar who is narrowly scrutinizing all 
my movements in connection with this property. 
More than this, I have learned that they have been 
trying for some time to discover the whereabouts of 
Earnest Leighton. Now, notice, if I should betray 
my trust, and they should happen to locate the wan- 
dering Earnest, my bed would not be one of roses 
by any means. The truth is, Father Mallory, I 
have not the least intention of committing suicide.” 


THE PRIESTS IN COUNCIL. 1 33 

Mallory began walking the floor impatiently, 
in deep thought with his chin resting on his chest 
and his hands thrust into his pockets. Suddenly 
he paused before Father Manning, and with the 
flame of passion burning in his dangerous eyes, 
said: “There is but one course, we must know 
where Earnest Leighton is, and then we must — .” 
In the latter part of the sentence his voice sank to 
a low whisper. 

“You give dangerous advice, my dear father,” 
said Robert Manning. And then, after a pause, he 
continued : “Yes, we must find out the present hab- 
itation of Mr. Earnest, and for that purpose I sent 
for Billy Gol3m this morning.” 

“Billy Gol^m !” exclaimed Mallory, “why, he is 
the very man, green as he is.” 

“He is not so green after all,” replied Manning, 
as he rang for a servant, whom he told to send in 
Billy Golyn. 

In a few moments a man entered — an odd little 
man. If you had guessed at his age you might 
have said thirty or sixty, and then not felt very well 
satisfied with your effort. There was this peculiar- 
ity about him which one would notice at first glance 
— there was too much skin for the area of face it 
had to cover. His brow and cheek were furrowed 
and rigid, but the ridges were hard and the furrows 
looked as if they were ploughed out to the bed-rock. 
His nose was long and sharp, of a penetrating, 
inquisitive character ; one would say that it was 
manufactured for the express purpose of scenting 


134 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


everything that pertained to some other person’s 
affairs. This nose was always held in just the right 
poise, which was an added attraction. Peering 
over its tip were two sharp eyes, though they had 
borrowed the color of his hair and thin beard, 
which were white, not gray. To this fact was 
attributable his verdant appearance, for his eyes 
did not show off to a good advantage unless under 
excitement. Resting under the tip of the above 
mentioned nose was a mouth that might belong to 
almost any sort of character. With the proper sur- 
roundings it would have been the mark of a deal of 
firmness ; but in the ambush of that downy beard, 
and overshadowed by that threatening nose, which 
held a position unfavorably near and prominent, it 
became a decidedly questionable mouth. Mr. 
Golyn was extremely nervous and fidgety, and in 
some circles of society would have been termed 
awkward — very. 

When he came shuffling into the room, and stood 
waiting to be addressed, pulling at his old wool hat, 
and shifting his feet from side to side, Mallory said : 
“Well, my Billy, you are as shaky as ever, I see.” 

He paid no attention whatever to this remark, 
but turned himself a little so as to face Robert 
Manning. 

“Billy,” said the latter, “I want to send you on 
a mission. Are you ready to go?” 

“Ready to go” — this was a habit Billy had of 
repeating the last words of a sentence, and he said it 
in a harsh, rasping voice — “Yes, Pm ready to go.” 


THE PRIESTS IN COUNCIL. I35 

“You remember Earnest Leighton who left us 
some time ago?’’ 

“Earnest Leighton, some time ago. Yes, yes, I 
remember.” 

“Well,” continued the priest, “we lost trace of 
him entirely, and we wish to know where he is. 
And your orders are to find him, whether dead or 
alive. Do you understand?” 

“You understand. Yes, yes, dead or alive. 
Yes, I’ll find him.” 

“Go now, and do not return till you bring me 
tidings of Earnest Leighton.” 

“Tidings of Earnest Leighton. Yes, yes. I’ll 
do it — I will. Never fear — tidings ; yes, yes.” 
And as he spoke his white eyes glistened, and 
he rubbed his hands together in a nervous, twitch- 
ing manner, and he continued to mumble to himself 
as he shuffled out of the room and into the great 
world, animated by a single resolve. 

As the door closed on him, Mallory said, with a 
chuckle: “He is Satan’s own child, Billy is, even 
to Satanic persistence. When he returns we will 
know the roost of our stray chicken.” 


CHAPTER XL 


MARABEL. 

It was one of those quiet, charming nights late 
in August. Every ray from the full moon beamed 
in gentleness, and there was a soft splendor shining 
from the faces of all the stars. It was one of those 
nights, peculiar in the depth of its silence, that 
gives to one a profound consciousness of the In- 
finite. 

Go out and gaze upward some evening, when the 
moon is a perfect circle and not a breath of air is 
stirring ; meditate but a moment, and the convic- 
tion will steal over you, that somewhere, in this 
universe, there is a Creator who directs all those 
shining orbs. These are periods of mental and 
moral exaltation. At such times we know we 
are immortal, and that He who ruleth over all is 
Eternal. 

As the twilight deepened on this quiet evening, 
a lady came to the parlor window of an elegant 
residence on one of the most fashionable streets in 
New York. She made the sign of the cross, then 
kneeling down looked up to the heavens, with the 
moon beaming full in her face. This window over- 
looked the street, and she was hid from the obser- 
vation of any one that might be passing, by the 


MARABEL. 1^7 

folds of the rich curtain which she had silently 
drawn around her. 

She seemed to be enjoying in its fullness the 
motionless glory of that August night. And yet a 
closer look would have showed you traces of anx- 
iety in her countenance, and would have raised the 
suspicion that she had come to this temporary altar 
more for strength than for praise. 

She remained in the same position for a consid- 
erable while, and then rising, closed the curtains, 
with a sigh, and at once lighted the room. 

Her anxiety deepened. She began walking the 
floor with her hands clasped before her. The 
shadows of trouble were gathering in her face and 
clouding her brow. She paused before a richly 
carved mirror that reflected her entire person, and 
as she gazed, a smile dimpled the corners of her 
mouth, and then rippled up to her eyes and faded 
away in their blue depths. 

It would be a fit moment to describe her while 
engaged in this womanly employment. But the 
task is a difficult one. She was, indeed, beautiful, 
but she belonged to her own peculiar type of 
womanhood. It was a beauty that grows on you 
with the growth of acquaintance — grows till it 
masters you. A dangerous kind of beauty ! 

Nevertheless, she was not deficient in attractions 
that would be readily noticed at a first meeting. 
She was tall, well proportioned, graceful, with one 
of those bewitching undulating walks. Her head 
had a cpieenl}' poise and was adorned with a heavy 


138 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

suit of beautiful hair that was one of her perpetual 
charms. Fair complexion, deep blue eyes, a fore- 
head high and white, too high for beauty in a strict 
sense. But her mouth was perfection — a mouth 
for one to love passionately. 

But no one could ever see Marabel Langford 
smile, and then forget her. It was one of those 
enchanting smiles that hovers on the lips and 
sparkles in the eyes. It seemed the kiss of the 
mouth meeting the love-beam of the eye. 

In such moments she was rarely beautiful with a 
beauty that ever deepens. To sit calmly in the full 
light of that smile was to surrender one’s self to 
bondage. It was her power of conquest, and it 
was all the more dangerous that she was unjcon- 
scious of possessing it. 

Marabel Langford had been carefully educated, 
and to her other attractions was added a cultured 
mind. Her course of instruction had been so lib- 
eral, indeed, as to call forth adverse comments 
from those who would limit woman’s knowledge to 
the mechanism of a biscuit rather than the archi- 
tectural structure of the universe. By nature she 
was industrious and studious, and she embraced 
with a hearty zeal every opportunity of increasing 
the range of her information and adding to her 
treasures of knowledge. 

One other thing may be said in her favor. Neith- 
er her accomplishments nor personal charms had 
the effect of impressing her with a sense of supreme 
importance. This is a grace that some gifted peo- 


MAR ABEL. 


139 


pie do not possess. She was proud, and rightfully 
so, but there was nothing like superciliousness or 
disdain in her treatment of those who were plainl}^ 
her inferiors. In being a lady she was no less a 
woman. 

With the characteristics we have already men- 
tioned there were coupled some which were not 
so pleasant. She had a deal of human nature about 
her, and for that reason we love her. It is the 
point of contact in the relationship of us all. 

Marabel was firm in the cause of right, and her 
conscience was delicately wrought. Influenced by 
her religious training, she was sometimes firm 
when right was not at stake. She would have 
been a religious bigot had she been less gentle. 
But as it was she barely escaped. 

In the presence of any one whom she disliked, or 
who would dare to criticise her cherished church, 
she would become silent and stately, or aggres- 
sively ironical. On these points she was unduly 
sensitive, and it had a correspondingly bad effect 
on her. 

When thrown in constant association with one 
whose presence irritated her, she would become 
subject to moody spells, which were positively dis- 
agreeable. But the re-action from these unhappy 
frames of mind often led her into extravagances of 
which she afterwards repented. These facts may 
account for some seeming peculiarities that may be 
developed in her history. 

There were times, however, when agitated by 


earnest EEIGHTON. 


t4o 

some exciting cause, her actions indicated an 
intensity of feeling that was truly alarming. The 
love trait in her seemed to be so "delicately organ- 
ized, so finely wrought, that a great wrong from 
one in whom she trusted might have the effect 
of awakening a counter feeling which would be 
potent for evil. This was only a suspicion held 
by some of her thoughtful friends. So far there 
had been nothing in her life to justify positively 
such an opinion. There were onl}^ a few fallen 
leaves to indicate the coming autumn frosts. 

After surveying herself for a moment in the mir- 
ror, she turned impatiently away and continued 
her promenade across the room. She looked at 
her watch, then drew aside the curtains and peered 
into the street, but apparently failed to see the 
person whom she was expecting, for she murmured 
to herself with a slight frown : “I do wish he 
would come.” 

It was a full hour after this, when she was just 
preparing to retire to her own room, that a hasty 
footfall was heard on the step. She flew to the 
door, and, on opening it, admitted young Father 
Louis. 

“How naughty of you to stay away so late, 
when you know how impatient I am,” she said, as 
she gave him a warm, sisterly welcome, 

“It was no fault of mine,” he replied. “I had 
to obey a summons of Father Mallory, and he pro- 
longed our interview to an unnecessary length ;” 
and he sighed wearily. 


MARABEL. 


141 


By this time they had reached the parlor, and 
Marabel suddenly faced him, with an impetuous 
stamp of the foot, as she exclaimed bitterly: “And 
what did Father Mallory want with you? Nothing 
agreeable. I’ll warrant. That man is the curse of 
my life, and I believe he will eventually ruin us or 
make us as mean as he is.” 

Louis opened his large brown eyes and looked 
at his sister wonderingl}- and said in a half depre- 
cating tone : “Wh}^ Marabel, that does not sound 
like you. Remember you are speaking of a 
Catholic priest and your own confessor. Be more 
guarded in giving expression to your anger, but 
tell me what this new trouble is.” 

The excited woman sank into the nearest chair, 
and a strange light burned in her eye as she 
replied: “I never liked him, and certain duties 
that he imposed on me to-day increased my disgust, 
and now that he is interfering with you, I have for 
him nothing but hatred. Brother, I hate him,” and 
the little foot emphasized this positive declaration. 

A serious smile came to the lips of Louis Lang- 
ford, as he seated himself in a chair by his sister’s 
side and said in his deep, earnest tone : “My little 
sister must be calm. I wish to know everything 
that Father Mallory has said to her, and she can 
not tell me in her present stormy mood. Let me 
see,” he continued, as he laid his finger on her 
wrist, “your pulse is in a considerable flutter, 
and you would better wait till you can speak with 
that calm precision that characterizes your sex.” 


142 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“You jealous man,” she cried, with a light 
laugh. “You envy us our free and easy tongues.” 
Then, more seriously: “ Suppose I should tell you 
that Father Mallory insisted on my saying nothing 
to you about my mission?” 

“He surely would not do that.” 

“Yes, but he did.” 

“And did you promise?” 

“No,” she said proudly, “My loyalty to the 
church will not make uie disloyal to my only 
brother.” 

Nothing was said for several minutes ; then Louis 
spoke, with a strain of sadness in his voice : “Tell 
me, Marabel, all that has happened.” 

Her eyes were full of tenderness as she replied : 
“My brother, I can not, tell you all. The privacy 
of the confessional restrains my tongue from much 
that it would utter. There are many things of 
which I would speak if the penalties of a broken 
promise did not always threaten me. And these 
penalties are so terrible when they are portrayed 
by Father Mallory. But he, the priest 1 hate,” 
and there was a metallic ring in her voice, “ came 
here this morning and asked to see me alone. He 
talked to me a full half hour about thincrs indiffer- 

o 

ent before he uttered the one sentence for which 
alone he came. 

It was the old message, that the church needed 
my services, and that I should not hesitate one 
moment, since I was so deeply indebted to one of 
her ministers for all that I enjoy. My dear 


MARABEL. 


143 


brother,” the sweet lips trembled now and the blue 
eyes filled with tears, “I wish we were back in our 
garret-room with our crust of bread and our 
freedom.” 

She continued : “Father Mallory wishes me to 
pay a visit of several months to a Mrs. Livingston, 
who resides in Lexington, Ky. I told him I knew 
nothing about her, and that I had no wish to form 
her acquaintance. I also pleaded with him to tell 
me the object of this visit, but he positively declined 
to gratify me.” 

“Did he give you no commission? and have 3^ou 
nothing to do?” questioned Father Louis. 

“Nothing, and that is what appears so strange. 
I can see no motive in it, unless, for some unknown 
reason he wishes me out of New York. He simply 
demands that I should visit Mrs. Livingston for an 
indefinite time. Now, she may be a very nice lady 
and all that, but I should like to have a voice in 
making out my list of new acquaintances.” 

“And he said nothing to raise a suspicion as to 
the object of this trip?” 

“Not one word. I mean,” she explained, “in 
our conversation of this morning,” and the blood 
mantled to her cheek and brow. Then she added, 
in a lower tone : “There are some things I wish so 
much to tell you, if it were not for that terrible ban 
of secrecy that is forever over the confessi(/nal. 
By the pledges that have been exacted from me, I 
felt assured that soon there would be a new revela- 
tion, but it is yet to come, though I think, we now 


44 


15ARNEST LEIGHTON. 


have its beginning. T am a true Catholic, and yet 
I tremble at the way in which a young girl’s heart 
is unveiled when she is alone with the priest. It is 
an awful power, and dangerous for any set of men 
to wield. And, when I think about it in all its per- 
ilous aspects, I have moments of painful doubting 
too full of anguish to tell. Is it right, my darling 
brother, is it right, to rob a young girl of the joyous 
secret of her heart’s budding love? Are none of 
our hearts fresh enough to hold an idol of their own, 
free from the inquisitive glance of our priestly 
guides?” 

Father Louis placed his fingers on the lips of his 
sister, as he said : “I greatly fear Marabel, that 
you have caught the spirit of heresy. I have 
always looked upon you as the most devout Catho- 
lic, but you talk very wildly to-night.” 

“I am a devout Catholic,” she exclaimed impet- 
uously, “but there is something revolting in telling 
to an unsympathetic ear ever}" emotion of my heart. 
They are surely very much afraid that I will marry 
some Protestant, that they bind mein the chains of 
a hundred promises. And the fetters are galling 
to my very soul.” Then she continued in tones of 
impassioned tenderness : “How fondly I love the 
dear, dear old church ! Her hoary record, reach- 
ing back through the centuries — her august doc- 
trines, her glorious host of immortal heroes and 
martyrs ! Ah, my brother, how I cherish these. 
Possibly I should be more willing to submit patiently 
to discomiiture, in order to contribute my little mite 


MARABEL. 


145 


in re-producing the golden age of the church. To 
contemplate the vision of an accomplished CathoMc 
unity — the church in the full splendor of its univer- 
sal reign — is too wildly delightful for less than 
impassionate viewing. It is the one cherished 
dream of my religious life. And yet,” in tones 
almost of plaintive sadness, “and yet, with this 
strong incentive, it is nearly unbearable to have a 
man, though he be a priest, to riot through my 
secret thoughts with his dangerous and uncertain 
questions. Brother, if ever I give my love to any 
man, it will be too deep and true — all too sacred — 
to be bandied about even in a confessional. And 
yet it seems to me that I am entrapped in a net of 
promises that makes escape impossible . This is what 
is breaking my heart. Where is there an avenue of 
escape? I can not lie, and still I feel it impossible 
for me to tell every love-word and every love- 
thought. Oh, the depths of such degradation !” 

Her queenly form was swayed by her strong 
emotions, and there came into those clear, tender 
eyes, a look that was something akin to despera- 
tion. 

For a moment, Louis Langford regarded his sis- 
ter with a look of surprise and sympathy. There 
was a dawning revelation in his soul that all was 
not right. But how often do we catch a glimpse 
of a single ray of light only to see it vanish to leave 
us in deeper darkness than before. 

When he at last spoke there was a volume of 
suppressed emotion in his voice ; “My sister, you 


K 


EARNP:ST LEIGHTON. 


T46 

astonish me beyond measure. In your excitement 
you have surely fallen into error. Confession is 
one of the sacraments of our Holy Church, and it 
can not be wrong. You remember the language of 
the sixth canon of the Council of Trent: ‘Whoso- 
ever shall deny that the sacramental confe&sion \\ as 
instituted by divine command, or that it is neces- 
sary to salvation ; or shall affirm that the practice 
of secretly confessing to the priest alone ^ as it has 
been ever observed, from the beginning, by the 
Catholic Church, and is still observed, is foreign 
to the institution and command of Christ, and is a 
human invention. Let him be Accursed.’ Mara- 
bel, I plead with you to reflect on what you have 
said ; you can scarcely realize the dangers by which 
you are threatened. For my sake, and for your 
own, be more prudent in the future.” 

“I will promise you almost anything, my brother, 
only do not look so sad and troubled. I do not 
deny any sacrament of the church, but when cer- 
tain questions are raised, it pains me to go through 
the ordeal of confession. But forgive me this time 
and I shall try to wound you no more.” 

“That is a dear, good sister,” said Father Louis ; 
“but tell me, when will you leave on your visit?” 

“My Grand Pasha has set this day week as the 
utmost limit. My utter ignorance as to the object 
of the visit gives to it some little interest, for I shall 
be wide awake all the time watching for develop- 
ments. If I were a man, now, my curiosity would 
irritate me?J)eyond endurance.” 


MARABEL. 


147 


‘ ‘ I congratulate 3^ou , ” was rc joi ned , ‘ ‘on belong! ng 
to that sex which is never disturbed by that trouble- 
some propensity. I have always admired the con- 
tented disposition of our mother Eve.” 

“Ah, poor Eve ! the desire to please her husband 
and her power of imitation wrought her ruin,” 
replied Marabel. 

“A truce to 3'our smartness for this evening, my 
little sister,” said Louis, “as we have more serious 
matters that demand our attention.” 

Then this brother and sister, so strangely' placed 
in life, began to speak of their temporar)^ separa- 
tion. As true as they were to all the doctrines of 
their faith, they were slightly suspicious, to say the 
least, of certain of her priests. They were careful 
to make arrangements for a correspondence that 
should escape the observation of any one who might 
deem it his dut}^ to pry into their personal affairs. 
When all matters had been satisfactorily adjusted 
between them, Father Louis took his departure. 

The August night was far spent before this con- 
sultation was ended. A comparative silence had 
settled over the great city when the young priest 
went out alone with his thoughts. He was not free 
from agitation, and there was a pain at his heart 
that he could not understand. If the storm in his 
soul had settled down to a calm inquiry, the ques- 
tions w6uld have been : Is not the confessional 
wrong? And is not my sister’s protest right? 
Should any man stand between a human soul and 
its Savior? 


148 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


But he did not ask these questions ; he did not 
think of them. He was only conscious of an unrest, 
painful indeed, but in his effort to analyze the 
causes, he could trace them no farther than to the 
fact of his sister’s intended departure. Accepting 
this as a solution of the matter, he endeavored to 
regain his wonted cheerfulness. In this he may 
succeed. 

There was one other thing of which he vvas not 
insensible : He had gone to see his sister on this 
evening, for the special purpose of acquainting her 
with certain changes that were likely to occur in 
his own life — changes with which he was not alto- 
gether pleased. The disturbed condition in which 
he found her, induced him to refrain from men- 
tioning his own troubles. With brave cheerfulness, 
he was bearing his own grievances, with those of 
his sister super-added. 

When the appointed day came, it found Marabel 
ready to begin her journey to Lexington. In due 
course of time the trip was ended, and she was 
received at the residence of Mrs. Livingston. 

This worthy lady had passed the bloom of her 
youth, but she was still active and energetic. The 
lamented Livingston, who had departed this life a 
few years before, was the third husband whom this 
enthusiastic woman had led to the altar. Some of 
her impertinent neighbors very plainly hinted that 
she was yet willing to bestow her well tried affec- 
tions, together with her large bank account, upon 
some suitable applicant. In all probability there 


MARABEL. 


149 


was a vein of maliciousness in this bold accusation. 
Indeed, the “Madam,” as she was called, had been 
heard to intimate, on numerous occasions, that she 
could not be induced to think of marrying, unless 
it should be in a case where the deep attachment 
of the gentleman threatened wreck to his life if 
she declined to listen to his suit Rather than such 
a dire calamity should happen, she would surren- 
der her never-failing love. Such tender regard for 
the feelings of others is worthy of profound 
admiration. 

She gave Marabel a warm reception ; indeed, it 
was one of her characteristics to give every one a 
warm reception. She was delighted that her city 
friend had found it in her heart to pay a visit to 
Lexington. The quaint Marabel thought it never 
originated in heart. 

But with busy tongue the estimable Mrs. Liv- 
ingston kept up an incessant conversation as she 
accompanied her visitor to the apartments arranged 
for her use. But, once in her own room, Marabel 
complained of weariness, and begged for a cup of 
tea and the privilege of being left alone. With the 
utmost politeness, Mrs. Livingston granted her 
request, saying, as she bude her good-night, that 
she would send a servant to attend on all her wants. 

In a few days Marabel was established in the 
house of her hostess, and Mrs. Livingston spared 
no pains in introducing her to her own circle of 
acquaintances. Already several ladies had called, 
and one notable evening quite a gay group of young 


EARNESi" LEiGHTOi^. 

ladies and gentlemen were to tea. Added to these 
was the parish priest, who never lacked for atten- 
tion at the hands of Mrs. Livingston, as she was a 
most scrupulous Catholic. On this evening, the 
larger part of Father Neigler’s time was devoted to 
Marabel. 

Two weeks later, it was the first day for the new 
session at Transylvania ; the Madam proposed to 
Marabel that they should return the call of Mrs. 
Stanley. She had already explained that Mrs. 
Stanley was not in her “set” exactly; “She keeps 
boarders, you know, my dear,” she had said, “and 
I only visit her because she seems to think so much 
of me.” And, for the sake of that love, they called 
on Mrs. Stanley. 

It was at the close of this visit, when they were 
on the eve of starting home, that Marabel Lang- 
ford first met Earnest Leighton and Gerould Win- 
grove. To her there was nothing extraordinary in 
this meeting, or in the introduction which naturally 
followed. 

They lingered a few moments on the veranda in 
conversation, the more forward Gerould claiming 
the attention of Marabel, while the quiet and shy 
Earnest was talking to Mrs. Livingston. That lady 
said archly, in a tune pitched for the ear of her 
listener alone : “You think her beautiful, I should 
judge, from 3^our admiring glances?” 

Earnest colored slightly, because he was con- 
scious of watching Marabel more closety than he 
was obliged to do in strict politeness. He was a 


MAR ABEL. 


151 

little annoyed that the sharp-eyed Madam should 
notice it, so he said, very indifferently : “Ah, I beg 
your pardon. Madam, but I was observing more 
particularly her striking attitude. I think she 
would be graceful in motion.” 

“You do,” said the Madam dryly, with an 
inquisitive look gathering around her inquisitive 
little mouth. She was just the least bit suspicious 
that the reply was intended to be evasive. 

But she tapped Earnest on the arm with her par- 
asol, and said in the same guarded tone : “I wish 
to make Miss Langford’s visit pleasant, and for that 
purpose I desire some young gentlemen’s company. 
Consider that you have a standing invitation to call 
as often as it suits 3^our convenience, and I trust 
you may come at an early day.” 

Earnest expressed his gratitude for the honor, 
and promised to comply with the terms of the 
invitation. 

Here the two currents of our story meet. 


CHAPTER XII. 


FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 

Gerould Wingrove recklessly whirled his hat 
across the room, where it landed on the bed in a 
somewhat dilapidated condition, threw himself into 
a chair, perched his feet on top of the table, and 
exclaimed enthusiastically : “She is the finest girl 
I ever saw. What heavenly blue eyes, what a 
queenly carriage, what a statuesque figure ! The 
fair-haired Helen was not fairer than is she. I tell 
you, niy old chum, she is an angel. Why, it 
requires no stretch of imagination to paint her 
with celestial wings. I tell you, sir, that I am 
overwhelmed. I am hopelessly in love.” 

“Don’t be a fool, Gerould,” said Earnest Leigh- 
ton in a quiet tone, as he placed a chair near a 
window which happened to overlook the street by 
which the Madam and Marabel were returning 
home. 

“Don’t be a fool,” cried Gerould ; “splendid 
advice, my disinterested friend. There is nothing 
like keeping cool under such exciting circumstan- 
ces, so as to be able to take advantage of every 
opportunit}^ that may present itself. I do not fail 
to observe,” he continued, coming to the side of 
Earnest, “that my adviser has selected, with due 


FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 


153 


deliberation, a most charming point of observation, 
which was wholly unnoticed by me owing to my 
delicious agitation.” And the speaker laid his 
hand on his heart, as he gazed after the receding 
figures. 

“You are in a boisterous mood to-night, Ger- 
ould,” replied Earnest. “It is not unusual for me 
to sit by this window, as you are well aware.” 

“Oh ! but my saintly Earnest, your conscience 
will not allow you to deny that Miss Langford was 
first in your thoughts when you so adroitly selected 
this seat.” 

Earnest remained silent for a moment, as he 
reflectively watched the disappearing ladies. A 
consciousness was stealing into his heart that he had 
put himself to unnecessary pains to appear wholly 
indifferent to his observing friend. He was cer- 
tain that he did not feel that way, and why not act 
his true feelings. He was troubled and uneasy 
about something, he could not tell what. Why 
should Miss Langford make such an impression on 
him ! — an impression full of unrest. 

He was thinking rapidly, as his room-mate stood 
by him awaiting a reply — thinking of things that the 
friend so near to him could never guess. He reas- 
oned that it was not surprising that he should meet 
a lady from New York, and that the Madam 
should be the one to introduce her. It was within 
the bounds of possibility for this to happen a hun- 
dred times. And yet, there was in his very soul a 
strange feeling to account for. A saving thought 


154 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


came into his mind and changed the current of his 
reasoning, till it flowed to a satisfactory conclusion. 
The whole trouble was to be found in his agitated 
condition at the time of the introduction. He 
had just been living over the dark experiences 
of his life, leading his friend by the hand 
through the gloomy days of his own history, 
and the bad sounds, awakened by their tread, had 
not yet died out in his heart. This was the secret 
key that unlocked the mystery of his perplexed 
condition. Miss Langford had nothing whatever 
to do with it. So he turned to Gerould with a smile 
and said : 

“How anxious and inquisitive you are. Are you 
really to play the roll of a father-confessor, and am I 
to divulge all the secrets of my thoughts? or, do 
you think that it is necessary that every one 
should be inspired with the same zeal for Miss 
Langford that characterizes your enthusiastic self ?” 

“You are trying to dodge the question, my 
worthy chum. Now listen, did you not come to 
this window to observe Miss Langford? and do you 
not feel an interest in her that you are endeavoring 
to conceal from your honorable and penetrating 
classmate? I tell you, sir, your actions are highly 
suspicious, and they would be readily noticed by a 
person less shrewd than my humble self. Come, 
you are a criminal at the bar of justice, you have 
heard the charges, now answer. ‘Guilty, or, not 
guilty?’ ” 

“If your honor would pardon me,” said Earnest, 


FIRST IIMPRKSSIONS. 


155 


with mock respect, “I would begin my defense by 
establishing the antecedent probability of my inno- 
cence. You can assign no possible reason for my 
coming to this window to stare after those ladies, 
when you know I have Mrs. Livingston's passport 
into the presence of Miss Langford. She gave me 
an urgent invitation to call early on the lady in 
question, and when I wish to establish a point of 
observation the location selected will be the neat 
little parlor of that most problematic Madam.” 

“So the Madam has already issued you a card 
of invitation, has she?” questioned Gerould, with 
a laugh that was not entirely free from nervousness. 
“Well, I am still ahead of you. The gracious lady 
herself has kindly consented to my visiting her, and 
I shall not be slow in taking advantage of so 
special a privilege.” 

“Consented, has she?” rejoined Earnest, with a 
tinge of irony in his tone, and a quiet, irritating 
smile that characterized him when he wished to say 
very much more than his words of themselves would 
express. “I have no doubt but that even I could 
have secured a similar invitation, if I had pressed 
the point.” 

“You are a vexatious rascal. Earnest,” said Ger- 
ould, laughing and slapping his friend on the shoul- 
der. “You see right into a fellow without any 
mercy, when you take a notion to give your sar- 
casm a little airing. But tell me seriously,” and 
his tone changed from banter to pleading, “what 
3^ou do think of Miss Langford?” 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


156 

“1 scarcely have a definite opinion,” was rejoined 
thoughtfully. “I saw her but a moment, and had 
no conversation with her. I think she would pass 
for beautiful, she is certainly graceful, and, from 
all appearances, I should judge her to be intelli- 
gent and accomplished. I incline to the opinion 
that she is an attractive woman, but — ” here he 
paused and slowly drummed with his lingers on the 
window sill. 

“But what,” cried Gerould, giving him a vigor- 
ous shake. “Don't stop, you were getting along 
splendidly, expressing my feelings exactly, only 
you lack enthusiasm in handling your subject. 
Proceed.” 

“But,” continued Earnest, “judging from her 
company, and certain trinkets and ornaments that 
she wore, I would say she was a Catholic. Now 
— well — pshaw — old fellow, you know my opinion 
on that subject.” 

“Yes, I know you are one of the best fellows in 
the world, with one of the most abominable weak- 
nesses. You are an intolerant bigot in your Pro- 
testant convictions. It always has seemed to me 
a strange incongruity in one so sensible. Now, 
here I am, raised wholly under Protestant influ- 
ences, scarcely know anything about the Catholics, 
still, all things being equal and the proper motive 
being present, I should not hesitate a moment to 
offer myself and fortune to Miss Langford, con- 
ditioning on my part, that she should wear her 
crucifix, attend mass, occasionally invite in her 


FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 


157 


priest to tea, and freely discharge other similarly 
pious duties.” 

“How would you be affected by the knowledge,” 
asked Earnest, “that a confidence existed between 
your wife and her priest, which, under no circum- 
stances could be broken to you?” 

“Oh ! well, such a case as that is scarcely prob- 
able. Of course, now, I should object to any 
familiarity on the part of the antique-dressed gen- 
tleman. And if I had any reason to suppose that 
any pranks were being plaj^ed on me — well, I 
shouldn’t like to say just what I would do. You 
know that I am an excitable, impulsive wretch, and 
I shouldn’t wonder if some clever priest got his 
neck broke. But in all seriousness, Earnest, such 
things as that are born of your prejudice, and have 
no existence in fact.” 

“I tell you they have an existence in fact,” said 
Earnest warmly “Why, it was only recently that 
1 read in a paper, an account of a Roman Catholic 
priest being tried for abusing a member of his 
church, because she refused to take her children 
from the free-schools at his command. Now notice, 
the defense set up was that the transactions of the 
confessional were to be kept secret ; that the 
woman knew this, and if she should violate this 
solemn obligation she was unworthy of belief. 
Witnesses, members of the Catholic Church, were 
examined, who testified that, according to the can- 
ons of the church, whatever insult a priest might 
offer a woman at the confessional, she was botmd 


158 EARNEST LEIGHTON, 

to keep it secret from her husband! Are you so 
blind that you can not see under what solemn obliga- 
tions every penitent is placed when she goes to the 
altar of the confessional?” 

“Oh ! pshaw, now Earnest you found that in a 
newspaper, and you dole it out to me for unques- 
tionable fact. Do, I pray you, spare my feelings, 
for these newspapers are such prodigious liars. I 
mean by that, they misrepresent facts in a pious 
kind of way, you know. Now, Fll warrant that 
you saw that notice in a religious journal, which, 
of course, always speaks in the most exact terms of 
those who may happen to differ from it.” 

“Yes, I saw it in a religious journal, but it was 
taken from a secular paper, and it records a fact 
that happened in open court. But if you are not 
satisfied with this, I will give you some evidence 
that you can not impeach. St. Liguori on the 
Commandments and Sacraments, says : ‘A peni- 
tent at the confessional should imagine himself to 
be a criminal, condemned to death, bound by as 
many chains as he has sins t« confess, and present- 
ing himself before a confessor who holds the place 
of God! and who alone can loose his bonds and 
deliver him from hell !’ Then, the Catechism of 
Trent declares : ‘The priest, as the vicegerent of 
Jesus Christ, is bound to eternal secrecy, by every 
law, human and divine !’ Again : ‘Secrecy should 
be strictly observed, as well by penitent as priest ; 
and hence, because, in any such circumstances, 
secrecy must be insecure, no oqe can, on any 


FIRST IMPP.ESSIONS. 


JS9 

account, confess by messenger or letter.’ These 
are authorities in the Catholic Church, and they 
sustain my position, and ought to be conclusive to 
you ” 

“I can not see why people are so prejudiced,” 
responded Gerould impatiently. “Now, I am sure 
that there are many good members in the Catholic 
Church. You seem to think them all desperately 
vile and wicked. I don’t believe any such thing. 
A whole host of them are — ” 

“Hold a moment,” interrupted Earnest, “you 
are under the pressure of too much steam, and have 
run off the track. I never said the members were 
desperately vile and wicked. I have been speak- 
ing of the doctrines of the church, and not the char- 
acter of its private members. I hold that the con- 
fessional is obscured by all the mysteries of secrecy, 
and it is assailed by all of those temptations inci- 
dent to a position in life where one’s actions are 
hidden, and no word of information can be spoken 
concerning them. It is not in human nature to 
withstand such temptations. If Gerould Wine- 
grove wishes a wife who listens to questions and 
returns answers of which she can never give the 
slightest intimation to him, let him marry a woman 
whose religious convictions prompt her to kneel in 
the confessional. I neither wish, nor shall I have, 
such a wife. She may be as pure as an angel all 
through her life, but to me it would be unbearable 
to know that she was pouring into the ear of another 
man the deepest thoughts of her heart — thoughts 


i6o 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


that she dare not breathe to me, Gerould and 
Earnest rose to his feet, his deep voice trembling 
with suppressed feeling and his open gra}^ eyes burn- 
ing with the fires of excitement. “Gerould, if I 
should meet with a woman, the loveliest of all 
women, if she should stand the peerles queen of all 
her sex in fairness of person and accomplishments 
of mind, if she should inspire me with a love 
stronger than all the combined passions of mysoid, 
and then,* if, in the moment of my wildest ecstasy, 
I should learn that she was a devout Catliolic, I 
should break the chains of my bondage, even if 
the fires of my love were quenchless and their burn- 
ings were deadly.” 

Earnest began walking the floor, and Gerould 
gazed at him with a puzzled look, as if he were 
trying to fathom the cause of such feelings. Pres- 
ently the former said : “I have no idea, Gerould, 
that you sympathize with my opinions, but they are 
simply part of my very life — they have grown with 
my growth.” 

Gerould laughed a little, but replied with just the 
least trace of soberness in his tone : “Well, to be 
honest, I do not. If I loved a woman, and she 
were gracious enough to love me in return, I should 
marry her if she were a Catholic ten times over. 
The confessional may be a bad box, as you have 
said, but I should consent to my wife’s sitting in it 
occasionally, for the sake of her charming company 
the remainder of the time. By the way. Miss 
Langford may not be a Catholic, we are not sure 
of that, you know.” 


FIRST impressions. 


i6i 


“Oh! I beg your pardon,” said Earnest in a 
bantering way, “I did not know you were really 
thinking of marr3dng Miss Langford. Pray, let 
me know long enough before the event to extend 
congratulations. Of course I shall say nothing 
about the suddenness of this attachment, the decis- 
ive promptness in settling so important a matter, or 
the variable temper of my worthy friend.” 

“All I have to say in answer to such an elegant 
and complimentary speech,” replied Gerould, “is 
that my only regret has reference to the uncertain 
and unsettled condition of the affair, more than to 
anything else. I will risk my first impression of 
the queenly lady, and am not at all horrified at the 
probable pranks that my variable temper may play 
me. But I am not of a jealous disposition, nor do 
I fear rivalry, so I suggest that, together, we shall 
pay our respects to Miss Langford. this means 
you can do honor to the invitation of the Madam, 
and I shall avail myself of the privilege granted by 
the young lady in person. What do you sa}^ old 
boy, to this arrangement?” 

“I say,” rtijoined Earnest, positively, “that you 
have no need to fear rivalry from 

“Pshaw, now, old fellow, don’t look so everlast- 
ingly solemn,” said Gerould, “you work on my 
delicate feelings, you know. Don’t, I beseech you, 
destroy my appetite by your sober face. You 
promised to go, did you not?” 

“Yes.” 


L 


162 


EARNKST LEiGHTON. 


“Well, to keep your word or not to keep it, that 
is the question.” 

“I shall keep it.” 

“Why in the name of common sense, then, can't 
you go with me ?” 

“I can.” 

“Why didn’t you say so then?” 

“There, that is the tea-bell,” said Earnest, 
“come along, old fellow, I am anxious to see how 
much your appetite is affected. 


CHAPTER XIIL 


OTHER IMPRESSIONS. 

It would scarcely be possible to deny that Mrs. 
Livingston possessed, in a very large measure, the 
delicate gift of curiosity. It would, indeed, be 
difficult to trace this remarkable trait to its origin. 
Many of her gentle friends, in the privacy of the 
sewing society, and during her absence, had tried, 
with most exemplary patience, to explain the pres- 
ence of this most extraordinary quality in one of their 
sex. This self-constituted tribunal returned the 
verdict that she received it by direct inheritance 
from her parental ancestors. This opinion was 
held unanimously, and was a source of much satis- 
faction to the sewing society. It was, indeed, no 
small feat to settle, without a dissenting voice, such 
a question, in such a manner. They were rightly 
proud of their achievement. 

But even the recognized authority of this society, 
on questions so occult, was not sufficiently great to 
silence all gain-sayers. A young man, of whom all 
the mammas in the neighborhood had prophesied 
a bad end, had quietly called in question this appa- 
rently just decision. We have no intention of 
defending this misguided young man. Possibly 
age brought to him the wisdom that was denied in 


EAR X F';ST L K U; H T( ) X . 


164 

his youth. But, however this may be, he did, as a 
question of fact, intimate that the conclusion of the 
society was erroneous. To his discredit be it said 
that he went further than this. He boldh’ 
announced that the trait under consideration was 
necessary to the full adornment of woman. That 
it possessed all the fascination and charm of a nat- 
ural grace. That it was one of the original ele- 
ments of her composition, and was necessary to 
the completion of her character. In one fatal 
sentence he covered himself with shame, by declar- 
ing that Mrs. Livingston was no exception to her 
sex. It is difficult to conceive how any well bal- 
anced mind could reach conclusions so clearly false. 
We have for such mental aberrations nothing but 
pity. 

And yet we must repeat, Mrs. Livingston pos- 
sessed curiosity in an eminent degree. She was, 
also, thoroughly well posted in all of those local 
items, which, in the aggregate, constitute gossip. 
We do not mean by this that she was especiallc 
communicative, but that she was remark?.bly absorp- 
tive. She consequently had on hand a fund of 
information, that for some purposes might be made 
useful. She never lost an available opportunity to 
increase this fund. But one thing may be trulv 
said of her — when requested by her priest to per- 
form any duty, she performed it without a single 
question. She followed her instructions blindly, 
with a faith that implicitly believed that, regardless 
of the means, the outcome would be right. 


OTHER IMPRESSIONS. 


165 

In this spirit she received the commands of the 
parish priest, concerning Marabel Langford, with- 
out pressing her inquiries beyond that which it was 
necessary she should understand in order to do 
fully her duty. But she had no scruples of this 
kind in regard to Marabel herself. Any informa- 
tion she could glean from her visitor, she viewed as 
her legitimate property. And she was indefatiga- 
ble in applying all those gentle arts of persuasion 
which she thought best adapted to elicit the coveted 
intelligence. Her measure of success, however, 
was not equal to the energy of her efforts. 

At this point, she and Marabel were laboring 
under a mutual misapprehension as to the amount 
of knowledge possessed by the other. The Madam 
did not suppose that her visitor came on so long a 
journey without having in view some definite object. 
She did not seem to comprehend that others might 
blindly obey their church, as well as herself. She 
looked upon Marabel as being the depository of the 
very information for which she so greatly longed. 

On the other hand, Marabel reasoned that it was 
impossible that no one at Lexington should be 
acquainted with the object of her mission. Some 
one must be fully informed as to all its details. 
But who was that person ? This was to her a ques- 
tion of painful interest. She anxiously sought its 
answer, prompted by no mean curiosity. She was 
conscious, all the while, of a dread in her heart, 
as if she could see slowly approaching some horri- 
ble calamity. She attributed this unhappy feeling 


l66 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

to her anomalous situation. Her hope of relief lay 
in discovering what her superiors expected her to 
perform. But before she could gain this knowl- 
edge, it was needful that she should first find in 
whose possession it was. 

Her quick mind decided at once that the secret 
lay between the Madam and Father Neigler, the 
parish priest. There was a strong reason in favor 
of both of them. The priestly office of the one made 
it highly probable that he would be chosen for the 
work ; the close association of the other with her- 
self, coupled with her enthusiastic loyalty to the 
church, rendered it altogether possible that she 
would be entrusted with the commission. Certain 
little incidents that were repeatedly happening, 
finall}' led Marabel to the conclusion that the Madam 
was the one who had been honored by the choice 
of Father Mallory. She therefore acted accord- 

ingly- 

This little contest between the ladies was carried 
on in the most respectful manner. And yet it 
could not have failed to furnish some amusing fea- 
tures to an outsider, who might have known that 
each was striving to get information from the other, 
which the other did not possess. We fancy the 
parish priest was just this outsider. Knowing, as 
he did, the peculiar character of woman, it will 
always be an open question, whether he should 
have remained silent or should have spoken. Pos- 
sibly the discipline of his church was stronger than 
his sympathy with anxious human nature. 


OTHER IMPRESSIONS. 


167 


The Madam and Marabel were on their way 
home from Mrs. Stanley’s. The distance was only 
a few squares. The former seemed anxious to talk, 
the latter equally anxious to be silent. Marabel 
was convinced, after some reflection, that she had 
been taken to Mrs. Stanley’s for a purpose, and that 
the Madam knew the meaning of that purpose. 
She felt herself to be ignorant of it, consequently 
stood at a disadvantage. 

A cloud of thought had gathered on the Madam’s 
sharp face, but it cleared away as she made a 
remark that was to be the entering wedge of the 
conversation : 

“Those young gentlemen are students,” she said. 

“Mr. Wingrove intimated as much to me,” was 
the brief rejoinder. 

“They both graduate this year,” replied the 
Madam. 

“Again the gentleman has preceded you in giv- 
ing that information,” was replied, in tones that 
manifestly indicated a desire to drop the conversa- 
tion. 

“Mr. Leighton is said to be brilliant, and it is 
generally supposed that he will carry the honors of 
his class,” continued the Madam, as she slyly 
watched her companion from the corner of her right 
eye, which keenly peered out from under an ingen- 
iously arranged curl that cunningly hung above it. 

Marabel gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, and 
then assumed the position of questioner: “Do you 
not think Mr. Wingrove the handsomer of the two ?” 


i68 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“No, I don’t,” said the Madam, with some pos- 
itiveness, as if she had long since made up her 
mind on this question, and deemed any such opin- 
ion as impertinent. “Do you?” 

“Oh ! 1 did not pay much attention to Mr. Leigh- 
ton, as I was engaged in conversation with his 
friend. I think Mr. Wingrove fine looking, and 
took it for granted that he was, in this respect, the 
superior of the two. A few moments’ conversa- 
tion with Mr. Leighton might change this imma- 
ture opinion.” And this was said in a tone and 
with an air that plainly indicated a seeming lack of 
interest in the subject. 

By this time they had reached the residence of 
Mrs. Livingston, and Marabel ran up to her room 
at once, without giving the Madam an opportunity 
of pursuing the conversation any further. She 
closed and locked the door after her, threw her- 
self into a chair near the window, and sighed : “lam 
puzzled, so badly puzzled.” The best method of 
getting at Marabel’s annoying thoughts is to let her 
tell them in her own way, and for that purpose we 
insert a letter which she wrote on this occasion to 
her brother in New York : 

Lexington, Sept. — , 1844. 

My Dearest Brother: I told you in my last letter that mv next 
would contain some notices of Lexington and the surrounding 
country, but I am now inclined to place the redemption of that 
promise still in the future. I am bewildered by my surround- 
ings, and much need your brotherly advice. The Madam, as 
everybody calls Mrs. Livingston, is a perfect enigma to me. A 
suspicion occasionally steals over me, that I have invested her 
with altogether too much importance. I was forced to choose 


OTHER IMPRESSIONS. 


169 


between Father Neigler and the Madam, so, for many reasons, I 
selected the Madam as the knowing one, but I fear that I have 
missed the mark. 

I wish I could describe the Madam to you, but I am not equal 
to the task. She is awful funny looking. Sharp-eyed, sharp- 
faced, sharp-nosed, sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, a thin, short 
form, set off with sharp angles, adorned with front curls — that 
is the Madam. She is marriageable, too; how sorry I am that 
priests are not allowed to indulge in hopes matrimonial. This 
charming creature is my chafe ran, and she chaperons me most 
thoroughly. So far I have not escaped her watchful eyes for 
one moment, save only when locked in my own room. 

This afternoon we called on Mrs. Stanley, who boards stu- 
dents attending college here. I met two of these students, and 
one of them sorely puzzles me. His name is Earnest Leighton. 
I surely have heard that name before — and I thought nothing 
about him when first introduced, but the actions ot the Madam 
excited my suspicion. She was a little distance from where I 
was standing with Mr. Wingrove — the other student — and she 
was speaking cautiously to Mr. Leighton, too low for me to hear 
what was said, but I am certain I was the subject of conversation. 
Now, no woman can bear to be knowingly talked about without 
having her curiosity excited. Mine is raving, furious, 
unbearable. 

Besides this, I am annoyed with the thought that Mr. Leigh- 
ton is in some way connected with my past life. I am vexed 
that I can neither call up this connection nor get rid of this 
thought. Leighton, Leighton, where have I heard the name.? 
Where have I known it? My only hope is, my brother, that you 
can furnish me with a solution of this problem. I am satisfied 
beyond a doubt, that this gentleman has something to do with 
my visit to Lexington, but I have not the most remote idea what 
that something is. 

Can it be possible that Father Mallory knows Mr. Earnest 
Leighton, and has a deep reason for wishing me to become 
acquainted with him? If I had my choice neither his nor Mr. 
Wingrove’s acquaintance would be cultivated. They are both 
Protestants, so I have understood, and you know my special 
antipathy. I have never associated with this class of persons, and 
should now prefer to be excused. The whole course of myedu- 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. 


170 

cation has been calculated to intensify mj prejudices, and I do 
not believe I could esteem, with a tolerable friendship, one who 
was not a member of the true church. 

Now, mj dear brother, write me a very long letter, giving me 
all the news, and telling me what you know of Mr. Leighton, 
and above all things, I beg you, write at once. 

Your loving sister, 

Marabel. 







CHAPTER XIV. 


FATHER I.OUIS’ REPLY. 

New York, Oct. — , 1844. 

My Dear Sister: It was only this morning that your letter 
was received, and I hasten to reply in order to relieve you as far 
as possible from your present anxiety. I deeply regret that my 
little sister is subject to so much annoyance. I think I can 
remove the perplexity concerning Earnest Leighton, by recall- 
ing certain facts that occurred within your memory. 

You have not forgotten, I am sure, our old home in the garret 
of that wretched tenement-house. I shall always recollect those 
trial-days, when we were half-clothed, and our meals were often 
made from a crust of dry bread. During that hard period in our 
experiences, there was one rich man who was to us a kind and 
helpful friend. It was Mr. Leighton, the eminent and prosperous 
merchant, and the father of Earnest. He gave me employment 
when he did not need my services, and he was slowly but surely 
adv'-ancing me to a position that would furnish us with an 
independent support. 

I received from him innumerable acts of kindness, and was 
frequently benefited by his fatherly advice. Of all the men whom 
I have ever met, that were in a position to render me assistance, 
he alone has been unselfish and disinterested. I shall always 
cherish his memory as my large-hearted, generous benefactor. 

I know you can remember having heard me speak of him often, 
but especially will you recall the time of his death. He and his 
wife were victims of the cholera, during the period of its fearful 
prevalence. Father Manning, who is his half-brother, became the 
guardian of his children, and administrator of his estate. It is 
rumored that Rena Leighton died, and Earnest, rebelling against 
the discipline of his uncle, made his escape and fled, we know 
not whither. An exhaustive search was immediately made, but 
with barren results. 

171 


172 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


Some three years ago, Billy Golyn, the church’s detective, 
received orders to find Earnest Leighton, whether dead or alive. 
He was absent from the city for a very long while, and had only 
returned a few days before you were instructed to visit Lexing- 
ton. Grouping these facts together, they impress me very 
strongly with the opinion that Earnest has everything to do with 
your mission. But I know not the motive. It is another scheme 
of Father Mallory to accomplish some hidden purpose. 

But, above all things, beware of Father Neigler. Rest assured 
that he is the agent in Lexington. Catholic priests do not trust 
old women with important commissions, even if they be as 
accomplished and attractive as the Madam. Be guarded and 
watchful in everything you do, and possibly you may yet pene- 
trate Father Mallory’s design. 

But one other statement I wish to make concerning Earnest 
Leighton. A Langford may readily forgive an injury, but he 
can never forget an act of kindness. Through the good deeds 
of his father, Earnest has a claim upon us that can not be readily 
canceled. Be careful that your religious prejudice does not lead 
you into slighting one who is the unfortunate son of a noble and 
generous family. I know it is not necessary to urge this point 
upon my sister, who always has such a delicate regard for the 
feelings of others. 

And now, my little sister, allow me to be egotistical enough to 
say some things about myself. Just before you started to Lex- 
ington, I learned that Father Mallory had a little plan on foot to 
make me assistant confessor to the Convent of St. Mary. I was 
too young and inexperienced for the place, and it was contrary 
to the canons of our church. I thought I could easily defeat a 
movement that was so clearly wrong. But in this I have been 
bitterly disappointed. The dispensation of our Most Holy 
Father was secured, though I entered my protest through Father 
Manning. And for the last month, I have been discharging the 
duties of my new position. 

I am free to confess to you, that I do not like the duties of my 
present office. It is opening up to me some phases of life, with 
which I have heretofore remained unacquainted. They are not 
of such a character as to elevate my opinion of the convent sys- 
tem, which is such an important factor in our church’s strength. 
There are some strange scenes enacted within these silent walls. 


FATHER LOUIS’ REPLY. 


173 


There are some mysteries that will await the revelation of the 
great judgment day. The corner-stone of their foundation is 
secrecy and it is also the tower of their strength. 

But I have come in contact with one person of whom I must 
speak. She is a young lady of apparently eighteen years of age, 
and has been in the convent nearly ever since she can remember. 
When I first saw her my sympatliies became greatly excited. 
She is a fair, fragile creature, .that seems to be carrying a weight 
of sorrow around with her. But there is a calm firmness in 
everything she does, which shows that the weakness of her body 
has not affected her placid temper, or the strength of her will. 

On account of her gentle nature, the inmates of the convent 
call her Sister Angelica. She was born in the Protestant faith, 
and vvitli all the care of the Mother Superior and the associa- 
tion of the sisters, she still clings, in part, to the religion of her 
mother. She can not be induced to confess, nor will she pray 
to any of the saints. She cheerfully conforms to a certain por- 
tion ot our worship, while other parts -of it seem to fill her with 
repugnance. Every influence of the convent, from the most 
patient persuasion to the most rigid discipline, has been tried in 
vain. 

While refusing to yield her conscientious convictions to the 
dictation of others, she has at the same time conducted herself 
in a manner so gentle that she has won the love of the entire sis- 
terhood. The Superior is extremely solicitous for her conver- 
sion. She requested me to use all my influence to effect this 
desirable end. 

A few days since I had a long conversation with Sister Angel- 
ica. It was my cherished wish to ascertain the difficulties in her 
mind that prevented her from fully conforming to all the canons 
of the Catholic communion. 

When she first came into the room where I was awaiting her, 
my heart bled as I gazed upon the fair and frail image before me. 
A face of marble whiteness, save on either cheek, where there 
was a flush of crimson ; large, lustrous eyes that were so intensely 
bright, a trembling form that almost tottered in its weakness — 
was the vision of Sister Angelica. It was indeed a vision, so 
unearthly was her appearance. She carried in her hand a white 
handkerchief, which she occasionally pressed to her lips as if by 
a strong effort of will she would retrain from coughing. 




17^ 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


With a scarcely audible sigh of exhaustion, she sank into a 
chair, and said; “The Mother Superior informs me that Father 
Louis wishes to converse with me.” 

My dear sister, I can not express to you my surprise — my utter 
bewilderment, /was to convert this woman, who sat before me 
the incarnation of purity and innocence. A woman into whose 
face I could not gaze without feeling myself guilty. She was 
one of the few of earth wliose v%'ry expression is a perpetual 
rebuke to sin. It was a face in which there was the mingled 
light of heaven and of earth — the borrowed radiance from heaven 
that is reflected from a soul that feels its weary struggle to be 
nearly ended, and the elimination of human sorrow and human 
regrets that belong to our earthly relations. 

It was several moments before I could speak, and then I said 
simply: “You seem to be unwell.” 

She smiled the saddest, sweetest smile I ever saw', as she 
rejoined w ith the single word : “Yes.” But there was in it the 
touching pathos that belongs to the silent sorrow of a broken 


life. 


I did not know what else to say, so I asked: “How long have 
you been in delicate health?” 

“My health has not been good for several years,” she replied. 

“Did you inherit your feeble constitution from your parents?” 
I asked, with cruel carelessness. 

“My parents!” she gasped, as a paroxysm of pain swept over 
her face. Then, recovering herself, she said; “I know little or 
nothing of my parents, but, as a girl, I was robust and hearty.” 

I can not tell you why, but I felt greatly embarrassed, and my 
next remark was an unfortunate blunder. I said ; “You possi- 
bly hav e brought on your illness by some thoughtless exposure.” 

She looked straight at me with those clear, honest eyes, as she 
replied in tones of great gentleness: “No, Father Louis, in a 
large measure I am out of harmony with your church; it was 
thought wise to discipline me, and I am a victim of what I call 
the cruelty of the convent.” 

“I have no doubt,” I rejoined, “that the seemingly harsh 
treatment, to which you were subjected, was intended for the 
good of your soul.” 

“It was really harsh,” she said, “and whatever effect it might 
have had on my soul, I am sure it was sadly at the expense of my 
body.” 



FATHER LOUIS* REPLY. 


175 


With her image before me, in my very heart I knew she spoke 
the truth. There are many things in our convents that are 
severely cruel. I could not justify these, and yet I was called 
upon to reconcile this pure-minded woman to those very things 
that my own soul abhorred. With me it was an impossible task. 
I felt a sympathy for her that I have never felt for any other 
being. And, under the pressure of this feeling, I said : 

“Sister Angelica, T am sorry for you in your distress, and I 
desire to help you. Will you not trust me? Tell me all you 
know of your past life, of your present grief, and of your ungrat- 
ified wishes, and I pledge myself to be your steadfast friend and 
your earnest helper.” 

Her face flushed scarlet for a moment, and then, if possible, 
became paler than before, and there came into her eyes a wistful 
look, so full of tender pleading. Her lips moved as if she were 
going to speak, but her words were checked by a sudden cough- 
ing, while she pressed her handkerchief close to her mouth, and 
when removed was covered with spots of crimson. 

When she had fully recovered herself, she said in a weak tone: 
“Yes, I can trust you, and the consuming wish of my life is to 
have my liberty. Let me have freedom, outside the walls of this 
convent — freedom to worship God as my mother did. I have 
prayed for a deliverer, and I have waited — waited so long and so 
wearily. You surely will not disappoint me, and forsake me 
now?’’ 

She leaned forward in her chair, and clasped her slender 
hands as she made her appeal. I took her poor, helpless hands 
in mine and askea ; “Do you know anything of your family? 
Have you any living relations?” 

She shook herdiead sadly as she replied : “I have only a dim 
recollection of my childhood, dim and indistinct, like some far 
off object on a misty morning. I can gather the image of my 
mother as she taught me to pray, taught me to have faith in a 
loving Savior. There is not left in my memory the faintest recol- 
lection of my father, but there comes to me at times, as vague 
as a dream, the remembrance of a brother. But there was a 
dark spot, away back in my life, out of which I can get nothing 
but low voices, hurried steps, confusion, which ended in my 
present surroundings. Oh! I will bless you with my last breath, 
if you will only let me go away from here. I am slowly perish- 
ing from the restraints under which I am placed.” 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


1^6 

I can not describe to you the sadness with which this was said, 
nor can I paint her piteous, pleading eyes. My heart sank within 
me as I thought of my promise to her, and the strict laws of the 
convent, through which I must break in order to gratify her wish. 
She wanted liberty, and whoever heard of a convent willingly 
unbarring its doors, that one of its inmates might pass out into 
the great world. I told Sister Angelica that I would still be her 
friend, but, in order to be of assistance to her, I must have time 
to study her case, and to mature a plan of action. 

She only said, as I took my departure: “I trust you, as I have 
never trusted any other human being. I believe if you would 
betray me to the Superior, after having sought my confidence, 
the result would kill me.” 

Now, my dear sister, I need, so much, your advice and your 
help. I feel such a strange interest in this woman, I work sed- 
ulously at my regular duties, I try to lose myself in study, I ride 
out on the beautiful Hudson, and drink in its glorious scenery, 
but I escape not. She is ever present with me; lam restless and 
dissatisfied when absent from her, and in her presence I find a 
satisfaction different from everything I have experienced in my 
previous life. 

I wonder if this is love. I shudder, as I ask the question. 
Love! and a priest in the Catholic Church! Oh! away, away 
with such a thought. I can not be recreant to the vows of my 
order. And yet I can not desert this woman. She must have 
help; but how.? and when.? 

Write to me soon, for I have such a burden on my heart. 
Your letters will be a cheer and a strength to me. I send you 
much brotherly love, and impatiently await your reply. 

Affectionately, 

Louis Langford. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE CONFIDENCE INTERRUPTED. 

It was late in October that Mrs. Livingston 
appointed to have an evening party. Possibly 
Father Neigler had much to do with the selection 
of the time and the naming of the guests. The 
Madam was radiant in the character of hostess. 
Her curls were arranged more bewitchingly than 
ever, and her nose appeared less charmingly 
inquisitive. 

Earnest and Gerould were among the number 
invited. The latter was in ecstasies over the pros- 
pect of seeing Miss Langford, although it had not 
been three evenings since he visited her. In truth, 
he had been a most regular visitor at the Madam’s 
house from the time of his first meeting with Mara- 
bel. His attention was annoying to the Madam, 
and she said as much to Miss Langford. But that 
young lady seemed to be of the opinion that her 
own judgment was as good as that of her hostess. 
At all events, Gerould Wingrove’s visits were not 
less frequent nor his attentions less marked. 

Reticence was not a characteristic of Gerould. 
He was a remarkably communicative young man. 
He had often said to Earnest, during the last month, 
that Miss Langford was an angel, and that he 

177 


M 


178 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

dearly loved angels. The conversation alw'ays 
grew upon him, and he became more free and con- 
fidential. He said on this occasion, in a low tone 
with a deal of earnestness in it, that he was fully 
convinced that Marabel admired him. He was 
free to admit that she was yet a little shy, “but 
then you know,” he added, “we have been 
acquainted but a short time. Her shyness will 
wear away. I would not want her to be too easily 
won, but I am certain the outcome will be all right. 
I have made up my mind, I am going to marry Mar- 
abel Langford. Now, honestly, old boy, don’t you 
think her a charming creature and me a lucky 
chicken?” And Gerould stopped blacking his 
boot and cast a questioning glance at Earnest, who 
was quietly sitting some distance away, looking 
more solemn than the subject seemed to demand. 

There came a smile to Earnest’s lips, half sar- 
casm and half pity, as he replied : “I suppose Miss 
Langford has unmistakably signified her willing- 
ness to accept you as a suitor, from the confident 
tone in which 3mu speak?” 

“Oh, no, not so fast, old fellow. You are too 
everlastingly exacting in your questions. You don’t 
suppose now that Miss Langford is going to sa}^ 
yes before I ask her? Not much she won’t. But I 
think she will be ready by the time I get my cour- 
age up to the test-point. She is just one of the 
finest girls in all creation. She is as sweet as a con- 
centrated sugar plantation . ’ ’ And Gerould smacked 
his lips and gesticulated violently with his blacking- 
brush. 


THE CONFIDENCE INTERRUPTED. 1 79 

“Gerould/’ Earnest began with great delibera- 
tion, “I do not believe Miss Langford is a flirt, and 
if she has given you encouragement she means it. 
But I think you are mistaken in the opinion that 
she has encouraged you.” 

“Or, in other words, my worthy chum, you mean 
to intimate that Gerould Wingrove is such a con- 
ceited goose that he fancies a woman in love with 
him when she is wholly indifferent. I tell you she 
is not indifferent, but is most attentive and kind.” 

“Yes, she might be attentive and kind to her 
poodle,” said Earnest with his provoking smile. 

“I have a great notion to destroy the beauty of 
your countenance with this blacking-brush, in com- 
pensation for your impudence,” cried Gerould. 
“But, by the way, when I last called on Miss Lang- 
ford, she made inquiry about you.” And he 
watched the face of his companion narrowly as he 
concluded this remark. 

Earnest colored slightly, and asked with some 
eagerness: “What did she say?” 

“Humph, let me see; I believe you came from 
New York.” 

“Yes,” rather impatiently. 

“Miss Langford has a brother there.” 

“Is that what she said?” 

“Hardly, I think.” 

“Will you be so good as to tell me?” 

“It has been some time since you called?” 

“I have been there only once, some three weeks 
since. 


i8o 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“Well, I scarcely remember what she did say. 
It was nothing very definite. The impression on 
my mind is that she remarked something about her 
brother’s being an old acquaintance of yours, and 
for that reason she would like very much to see 
you. No desire for your presence on your personal 
merits, my dear fellow, but wholly on account of a 
probable association with her brother.” Gerould 
critically scrutinized his appearance in a large mir- 
ror, and carefully removed the almost invisible 
specks that were clinging to his broadcloth coat. 

“An acquaintance with her brother !” exclaimed 
Earnest, starting up in his surprise, but almost 
immediately checking himself. 

“Pshaw, old boy, don’t get excited about it. 
There is nothing like preserving a perfect equilib- 
rium. Now T may be altogether mistaken, you 
know. How in the name of humanity can any one 
be expected to remember everything that so daz- 
zling a creature says. I know she was speaking of 
yourself and her brother at the same time, but pos- 
sibly the acquaintace is the fruit of my fertile 
brain. Don’t let it turn you topsy turvy till you are 
sure I am right. I will ask her about it again 
to-night, and will take the precaution to make a note 
of her answer. But it is high time we were off. 
I wouldn’t be too late for a Chinese Curiosity 
Shop.” 

“You are a provoking fellow, Gerould,” said 
Earnest as he took his friend’s arm and walked out 
into the street, “but I do not think 3 ^^ou will ever be 


THE CONFIDENCE INTERRUPTED. iSl 

a lunatic, so spare yourself all uneasiness on that 
subject.” 

“Not brains enough, hey? I shall have to give 
you a lesson, my dear sir, in good manners. But 
in the meantime I will interrogate Miss Langford 
for your satisfaction and my special enjoyment.” 

“Suppose, Gerould, you sa}’ nothing to Miss 
Langford of this matter, but leave it to me to 
broach in any manner that I deem best.” 

“ All right, all right. It is possibly best that 
you should have some subject in common between 
you, since you do not like each other very well. 
Oh ! I don’t mean just that. But then you are shy 
of her because she is such a strong Catholic, and 
she is equally wary of you because you are such a 
staunch Protestant. I am neither the one nor the 
other, as I used to be, but a jolly go-between. But 
here is the house that is illuminated by the charm- 
ing presence of the subject of our conversation.” 

The young gentlemen were ushered into the 
drawing-room, and were graciously received by 
the Madam. We will leave them there for a few 
moments, enjoying themselves in the usual way, 
while we pay our respects to another character. 

About a week before the evening of the party, 
Marabel had received her brother’s letter. The 
inexplicable interest which she had felt in Earnest 
was deepened by the reception of this epistle. She 
was conscious of a very strong desire to have 
a conversation with him, without being equally 
conscious of what she wished to say. In truth, 


1^2 


EARNEiS'f LEIGHTON. 


during the last week she had thought very much 
about Earnest, entirely too much for a lady who 
entertained her religious antipathies. Of course 
she attributed all this to the news she had received 
from her brother, and was slowly forgetting the 
fact that she was in a disturbed state some weeks 
before he wrote. But such is the consistency of 
human nature, at least some phases of it. 

Indeed, Marabel had already determined that 
the interest which she felt in Earnest was prompted 
by the gratitude she entertained for the memory of 
his father. Had she consulted Mr. Wingrove, he, 
possibly, would have been of the same opinion, pro- 
vided she had given him all the facts. 

In the morning of the day on which the party 
occurred, she received a brief note from her 
brother, which requested her to say nothing to Mr. 
Leighton concerning the revelations contained in 
his recent letter. This was a perplexity. She had 
already thought of much which she wished to say, 
and besides she had given Mr. Wingrove a hint for 
the purpose of arousing Earnest, and she thought 
now, in all probability, that the subject might be 
beyond her control. The real question was, howto 
have a conversation with Earnest without touching 
. the forbidden theme, provided an effort should be 
made to introduce it. She descended to the draw- 
ing-room with the vain regret that she had ever 
alluded to the subject. Many a woman has car- 
ried with her a like regret. 

Whatever else may be said of the Madam, she 


The confidence interrupted. 183 

generally contrived to have pleasurable parties. 
The one on this occasion was, as usual, enjoyable. 
Mr. Wingrove, especially, seemed to be in the high- 
est spirits. He adroitly managed to monopolize 
nearly all the time of Marabel. He sang with her, 
he promenaded with her, then while she rested, he 
sat on the divan and chatted with her. And he did 
this with so much address that it really was not a 
subject of criticism, even if the young lady were 
just the least annoyed. 

It was late in the evening that Earnest walked 
into the neat little library of the Madam. On one 
side of this room was a small alcove, separated 
from the main apartment by heavy damask curtains. 
It was such a charming, quiet nook that Earnest 
at once took possession, escaping thereby the noisy 
crowd. He moved a chair close to the window, 
and opening the blind, seated himself where it partly 
shielded him, while he gazed out into the silent 
night. The full moon of October was tinging with 
silver the frost-brown leaves, and was carpeting 
the earth with its varied colors of light and shadow. 

He soon fell into a reverie, and in slow proces- 
sion the events of his past life were moving before 
him. But he was suddenly interrupted by the 
sound of a light and hasty step, and before he could 
change his position, Marabel Langford glided into 
the quiet alcove. She was almost touching him 
before he arrested her attention ; then the waves of 
color swept over her face and neck as she said, 
with a charming mixture of pique and embarrass- 
ment : 


184 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“I hope Mr. Leighton will excuse me. I was 
momentarily weary of company, and thought to 
make a brief escape, but scarcely expected that one 
of our visitors had forestalled me in this pleasant 
retreat. But when Mr. Leighton has granted my 
pardon, I shall leave him to the happy solitude of 
his own meditations.” 

There was a delightful imperiousness about her 
as she concluded her remark, and Earnest thought 
he had never seen a woman so queenly. 

He replied: “If Miss Langford’s stay is con- 
ditioned on my act of clemency, I shall postpone 
that pleasure for a season. Indeed, I consider it a 
good providence that she broke up my meditation, 
as I very much wish a brief conversation with her,” 
and Earnest moved another chair near the window. 

As Marabel took her seat a troubled look came 
into her face, but it vanished as she replied with 
one of her attractive smiles: “I appreciate the 
gallantry that attributes my blunder to a good provi- 
dence, but I was really anxious to escape too much 
attention in the drawing-room,” and then she added 
archly, “even if that attention were very pleasant 
under ordinary circumstances.” 

There was a mischievous sparkle in the eyes of 
Earnest, as he remarked : “I shall not tell you how 
many plans I have laid this evening to capture Miss 
Langford from the gentleman who was so atten- 
tive, but his tenacity was equal to every emer- 
gency.” 

“You will recognize the superiority of woman’s 


THE CONFIDENCE INTERRUPTED. 185 

tact, when you remember how easily I captured 
you without intending to do so.” 

“And I feel very grateful for the mistake, as I 
wish to ask you some questions concerning your 
brother in New York.” 

At a venture, Marabel replied: “Perhaps I may 
be unwilling to communicate facts in family history, 
Mr. Leighton.” 

“I beg your pardon then,” rejoined Earnest, “as 
I do not wish to press an unpleasant question ; but 
as 3^ou made mention of the subject to Gerould 
Wingrove, I thought it would be proper for me to 
pursue it farther, since it has a deep interest to me.” 

Marabel Langford gazed into the large, earnest 
eyes before her, then thought of her brother’s note 
for a moment, and finally determined, at whatever 
hazard to herself, she would give him this audi- 
ence. So she replied : “It is possible that I know 
something that may be beneficial to you, Mr. 
Leighton. Let me know your wish, and I promise 
you a frank reply.” 

After a thoughtful pause. Earnest stated briefly 
the facts connected with his imprisonment and 
escape. In Marabel, he had a most attentive 
listener; at times her large blue eyes would fill 
with tears, and then again would show the indigna- 
tion which she felt. Earnest was most careful and 
exact in the description of his deliverer, and he 
closed with the question : “Was not that young 
priest your brother. Miss Langford?” 

Marabel had leaned over toward Earnest, and 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


1 86 

her face was full of eagerness, and a strange wistful 
look was in her eyes. She opened her lips to reply, 
but her voice was drowned by a much louder tone, 
which exclaimed : “Heigho, Fve found the truants ! 
What a delightful little nook in which to talk 
secrets !” 

On glancing up they saw the laughing face of 
Gerould Wingrove. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


SISTER AN GELICA. 

Mother Byxbee was the Superior of the Convent 
of St. Mary. She was a large woman, with light 
complexion and round face, and with not altogether 
a bad disposition, for a Superior of a convent. 
She indeed possessed some good qualities, but an 
insatiate desire to pry into other people’s affairs 
made her obnoxious to persons of discriminating 
tastes. The rigid rules of her order, alone, kept 
her from being a great gossip. But, as it was, she 
wandered through her limited dominion with her 
inquisitive eyes wide open, and her itching ears 
trained to hear the lowest sound. 

The Mother Superior was not a wicked woman. 
She possessed, at least, the remnant of a heart. 
Butshe profoundly believed in the Catholic Church, 
and in the imperative necessity of every one’s 
becoming a member of it in order to salvation. 
She would be cruel sometimes, then, for the soul’s 
sake, but was always praying for her own sake. 
Under her administration the Convent of St. Mary 
had not witnessed many cases of severe discipline, 
and even the worst of these had been instigated by 
an unfeeling priesthood. She was always solicit- 
ous for the conversion of every heretic that was 

187 


1 88 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

placed under her charge, but she generally prefer- 
red the mild agencies of persuasion to the severe 
measures of limited food in a dark cell. 

Her experience with Sister Angelica had been 
most unsatisfactory, and as a dernier resort she 
had placed her in the hands of Father Louis in the 
hope that priestly cunning might accomplish more 
than womanly tact ; but, true to the deepest instincts 
of her nature, she kept them under the most con- 
stant surveillance. One interview between Father 
Louis and Sister Angelica has already been referred 
to, and several others had followed since that time. 
During all these conversations Mother Byxbee had 
occupied an unobserved but convenient position, 
where she could note every movement and expres- 
sion of the interested actors, although she failed to 
catch the words which they spoke. 

To her interested eye, the whole scene was a 
most exciting pantomime, and she became con- 
vinced, at last, that those two young people were 
deeply concerned about each other. When Father 
Louis was talking to Sister Angelica, a light would 
come into his handsome face, and a tenderness into 
his splendid eyes, that registered a deeper feeling 
than the simple desire to proselyte a young woman. 

It was several weeks before she made this dis- 
covery, but having made it she knew that this way- 
ward sister could be no longer trusted to the spir- 
itual guidance of the assistant confessor. She felt 
there would be sad hearts, and she sympathized 
with them, for away back in her own life there had 


SISTER ANGELICA. 


189 

been a tender period full of low tones and fragrant 
flowers. In thinking over these happy days, which 
she had buried in a single grave, the stern Superior 
slowly gave place to the true woman. But this 
human wearkness lasted but a moment. The foot- 
steps of Father Louis had scarcely died in the dis- 
tance as he left the Convent, till the Superior was 
locked in her own room maturing plans to over- 
reach her own confessor. 

It was on the following day that Father Mal- 
lory received an urgent request from Mother Byx- 
bee to visit the Convent immediately, as she wished 
to advise with him on most important business. 
This was delightful news to the epicure priest, for 
he was sure of a dainty dinner in the choice little 
parlor of the Superior. With as little delay as pos- 
sible he repaired to the Convent, where he found 
the Superior alone, and a small table covered with 
all those delicacies that were calculated to tempt 
the appetite of a priest. Father Mallory spent a 
considerable time in testing the various dishes 
before him, and complimenting his hostess in the 
most agreeable manner ; but finally having finished 
both these pleasant duties, he moved his chair away 
from the table, and very near the Superior, as he 
remarked : 

“Mother Byxbee has attained perfection in the art 
of making a visitor feel entirely at his ease, and of 
putting him in the very best frame of mind to dis- 
charge ahy difficult duty. I shall be really happy 
now if I can be of some assistance to her in 


190 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


order to show my high appreciation of her courtly 
entertainment.’’ This was said with more cere- 
mony than generally characterized Father Mallory, 
but his little black eyes were full of their hidden 
cunning. 

The Superior began slowly: “I wish to state a 
hypothetical case to you, Father Mallory, one that 
I do not say has ever occurred or ever will hap- 
pen. Then I want your solution of the case and 
she watch him closely, but failed to get the expres- 
sion of his eye as he curtly rejoined: “Proceed; 
I understand.” 

“Suppose that in my experience as Superior 
of this Convent I should have a Protestant girl 
placed under my charge, and after my best 
endeavor she still remains a Protestant, although 
she has been with me long enough to have reached 
womanhood. And in my extremity — ” 

“But you ought to convert her,” interrupted the 
priest, impatiently. “The church at least expects 
that much of you.” 

The Superior drew herself up proudly and said 
in a curt tone : “The impatience of Father Mallory 
is scarcely warranted when he remembers I am 
stating an hypothesis.” 

“Oh! go on, then,” exclaimed the priest, winc- 
ing a little under the Superior’s reply. 

“Well, assume I failed and needed help, and that 
I called into my assistance the confessor of the 
Convent — ” ^ 

“A most proper person,” interpolated the priest. 


SISTER ANGELICA. 


I9I 

“And/’ continued Mother Byxbee, “suppose I 
should suspect from close observation, that this 
said confessor was in love with the lady, and was 
plotting — ” 

“Thunderation !” exclaimed Mallory, all excite- 
ment, “such a thing is impossible.” 

“I wish you would let me finish before you inter- 
rupt me,” rejoined the Superior. “This is neces- 
sary to the case which I wish to make out. Remem- 
ber, I believe my two characters love each other 
and that instead of trying to convert the lady, the 
priest is plotting her escape. Now under such cir- 
cumstances, what should be done?” 

The merciless light was burning in Mallory’s 
eyes as he answered sententiousl}' : “First make 
sure that your belief is right, then punish both cul- 
prits.” 

But / can not punish a priest.” 

“/can !” came fiercely from Mallory’s lips. 

“But suppose I did not wish to punish them?” 
inquired the Superior. 

“You have no choice in the matter. A priest 
that has so far outraged his profession as the one 
you have described must suffer the penalty of his 
crime.” 

Mallory arose and paced the floor a few moments 
in silence, then he came and stood in front of the 
Superior, placing upon her his sharp black eyes 
and shaking his short fat finger at her, said in a 
threatening tone : 

“I have my suspicions in regard to your hypothet- 


192 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


ical case, and T demand of you, by all the 
authority of my position, to know if the case is not 
a real one.” 

The Superior saw in an instant that the priest 
was excited and determined, and she cautiously 
asked : 

“Do you suppose I could have any motive in 
trying to deceive you?” 

“I suppose nothing as regards your motives,” 
said Mallory, harshly, “but I believe Louis Lang- 
ford, whom I placed here as assistant confessor, is 
the priest to whom you refer. I will know the 
truth either by fair means or foul. If you wish to 
shield either party you would better conciliate me 
by giving the desired information. I have shown 
the last act of mercy to this Father Louis, and with 
anything that concerns him I am as relentless as 
death.” 

In his rage the angry priest stamped his foot, and 
the baleful light from his wicked eyes spread all 
over his face. He was a desperate man, and the 
woman felt that she had aroused a lion in her path. 

There was a painful pause for several moments, 
and the Superior could hear the beating of her 
own heart. She was in a desperate strait. The 
necessities of her situation seemed to compel her 
to sacrifice Louis Langford, or to incur the greater 
risk of involving Sister Angelica in a common ruin 
with him. She knew the delicate girl could not 
stand, a single month, the harsh treatment of 
Father Mallory. In her extremity she made a 
feeble effort to gain time by remarking : 


SISTER ANGELICA. 


193 


‘•If Father Mallory will call again to-morrow, I 
will lay the whole matter before him in detail. I 
feel it to be my duty to follow his advice.’’ 

A sinister smile \\ as on the lips of the priest as he 
replied: “Your request is a confession that my 
surmise is correct, ha ! ha ! but won’t I make that 
young scapegrace of a priest smart? A priest, 
indeed ! He has been putting on too many airs 
already for my use, and I think he is about at his 
rope’s end now. I always said, give him rope and 
he would hang himself.” 

He walked to and fro across the room, rubbing his 
hands together in savage satisfaction. But he 
suddenly turned on the Superior and demanded in 
sharpest voice : “Who is the woman ? Your safety 
lies in telling me everything.” 

She hesitated no longer, but endeavored to make 
the best terms with the heartless man.” 

“I will tell you all,” she said, pravided you 
promise me upon your honor as a priest that the 
woman shall suffer nothing from your hand.” 

“I make that promise on the condition that you 
afford me an opportunity of overhearing a conver- 
sation between them, so that my proof may be con- 
clusive.” 

This was a hard condition, and again she 
hesitated. 

Mallory added with a sneer : “I warn you again 
that you would better accept my terms without so 
much dallying.” 

“I consent,” she said reluctantly. 

N 


194 


Earnest Leighton. 


“One other condition,” said the priest, and again 
his eyes were emitting their peculiar light ; “you 
must swear to me that you will not give to them a 
single word of warning. If you do may all the 
anathemas of heaven and earth come upon your 
head. I repeat, may you be a thousand times 
accursed, if you dare to breathe a single hint.” 

The fury of the man overawed the woman, and 
in a trembling voice she said: “I promise, oh, I 

promise, but do not make such awful threats.” 

* ^ * 

Two days after this scene Louis Langford had 
made arrangements to have another conversation 
with Sister Angelica. His visits had become very 
frequent. A better acquaintance with the unfortu- 
nate young lady had greatly intensified his interest. 

Sister Angelica, herself, was very much 
improved. Her step was more buoyant, a richer 
color was in her face and a brighter light in her 
eye. Hope is a wonderful tonic, and, for the first 
time since she could remember, she had hope. 
Louis Langford was the only Catholic official that 
had not betrayed her. She had faith in him, and 
all unconsciously extended that faith to others. 
She believed the world to be much better because 
she believed him to be good. 

But hope can not supplant the hectic flush. 
Hope can not stay, permanently, the flow of blood 
from lung to lip. But it did all that it could do — 
it made a dark pathway brighter — it sheeted, in 
purple and gold, a black cloud that had been for 
years slowly rising in a fair young life. 


sister angelica. I95 

This was the first promise of happiness ever 
enjoyed by Sister Angelica. It was unspeakably 
sweet. She had a foretaste of love ere the words 
of love had been spoken. She was dreaming of 
freedom before the prison bars had been broken. 
All this delight was filling her soul because she had 
found one man in whom she could trust. 

Poor woman ! for the moment she had forgotten 
the awful monster that held her with its giant 
strength. She overrated the ability of a single man 
to cope with a church that was almost omnipresent. 
It was a fair, beautiful bird, beating its wings in 
vain, while held by the deathless eye of its charmer. 

While Sister Angelica was really happier than 
she had ever been. Father -Louis, on the other 
hand, was a painful contradiction. There were 
moments with him in which the joy of a life seemed 
compressed, but these were sure to be followed by 
a feeling wholly opposite, and indescribably bitter. 
As a man, he felt all the delicious pleasures of lo\*- 
ing a pure woman : as a sincere priest, he experi- 
enced all the tortures of an outraged conscience 
incident to such a human weakness. 

Louis Langford was occupying a strange attitude. 
The doctrines and morals of his church, which had 
been with him a constant study, were being weighed 
in the balance against the simple intuitions of right. 
But there was one question which presented itself 
to his sensitive nature that was full of gall and 
bitterness. Had he the right, as a Catholic priest, 
to assist Sister Angelica in escaping from her 


196 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

imprisonment? He always staggered over this 
question ; it was the mother of sleepless nights and 
brooding days. 

This was the problem which he studied for many 
weeks. Looking at it from one angle of vision, it 
seemed wonderously like treachery ; while from a 
different stand-point, it had the appearance of an 
unselfish act of humanity. He decided, at once, 
that it was inconsistent with his priestly office to 
love any woman. Of course, then, he would cru- 
cify every tender feeling that was in his heart for 
Sister Angelica. 

He wished to talk to her about the plans he had 
matured under the pressure of this feeling. Hence 
the present visit. 

When he had gone to the convent before. Sister ^ 
Angelica had always received him in the same 
apartment, but on this occasion he was ushered into 
a small room singularly finished off with panel 
work. The entire appearance of this little parlor 
impressed him as being peculiar. There was not 
an ornament in it. A rich brussels carpet covered 
the room, and two upholstered arm-chairs were 
fastened to the floor on opposite sides of the apart- 
ment. Father Louis tapped on the paneling and 
discovered that it was very thin. There was no 
other door visible except the one through which he 
had come. 

His study of the room was interrupted by the 
entrance of Sister Angelica. She was dressed in 
white and wore no ornament save a red rose at her 


SISTER ANGELICA. 


197 


throat. But her dress was not whiter than her face, 
if we may except the crimson spots that rested on 
either cheek, like the watchful sentinels of the army 
of death. 

She moved forward gracefully to where Louis 
Langford stood, and gave him her hand in saluta- 
tion. He held that delicate hand for une moment 
in his warm clasp. Had he done otherwise he 
would have been less than human. As she with- 
drew it the rich blood came to her cheeks and her 
lips trembled. She had her color again. 

There was an awkward pause. Under such cir- 
cumstances the pauses are always awkward. 

She was the first to recover herself — women 
always are — and she said, half playfully: “There 
are two stationary seats, which will you select?’’ 
But even as she spoke jestingly a shadow was gath- 
ering on her face. 

Louis Langford looked at the chairs, and then 
remarked : “Being entirely unacquainted with these 
seats, I am not in a fit condition to make a choice. 
I wave my right in favor of Sister Angelica.” 

“I must also plead ignorance,” she said, with a 
light laugh, as she took the chair nearest her ; “but, 
to be frank with you, I was never in this room 
before. As long as I have resided in the convent, 
I was not aware that such a room was in existence. 
Possibly there are many other apartments of which 
I know nothing.” 

This sentence was concluded with a sigh, which 
clearly marked an uneasy feeling. A sudden rest- 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


198 

lessTiess had stolen into these hearts that were glad 
to meet each other. For a time they sat there 
silently, entirely unconscious of their attitude. 
They were listening — listening for — they knew not 
what. 

It is painful to have an undefinable sense of dan- 
ger creeping over you. One can not feel alto- 
gether easy when the very atmosphere that one 
breathes seems to hold a threat. 

These two young people were aware that they 
were inciir/ing a fearful risk when they endeavored 
to open the gates of the Convent against the wishes 
of the chu xh. But it was to one of them the price 
of life and liberty. To the other it became a high 
duty prompted by the noble inspiration of a lofty 
chivalry. . 

Nevertheless, it requires brave hearts to face an 
unseen danger. There is something heroic in a 
body of soldiers moving forward in steady column, 
under the conviction that a masked battery may 
open upon them at any moment. Those are peer- 
less spirits that will press on in a hazardous enter- 
prise against the chilling consciousness, that 
detection is already an accomplished fact. 

The silence was broken at last by Louis Lang- 
ford asking: “Did the Superior give any reason 
for assigning this room as the place of our 
meeting?” 

“None,” is the reply. Thenisadded: “Father 
Louis is aware that neither priests nor Superiors 
generally assign any reason for their actions. 
They command, we obey.” 


SISTER ANGELICA. 


199 


“But Superiors do not command priests,” he 
said. “And I feel almost positive in the convic- 
tion that Mother Byxbee never, of her own accord, 
sent us to this room. There is some other power 
behind her throne. I think — ” 

Here he paused and met the questioning gaze 
of his companion. There was a slight movement 
beyond the paneling that attracted the attention 
of both. It sounded as if some one had grown 
tired of one position and had changed his attitude. 

This was suspicious. The problem of their 
fears was now solved. They were confident that 
the pious system of eaves-dropping was being prac- 
ticed upon them. The face of Louis Langford 
darkened and his lips were firmly set. 

Involuntarily he took hold of his chair to move it 
nearer Sister Angelica, whose face wore a pained 
and troubled expression. He smiled bitterly as he 
was reminded of the fixed nature of his chair, and 
remarked : “In keeping with all the rest.” 

He quietly took from his pocket his note book, 
and on a blank leaf wrote the following, which he 
tore out and handed to Sister Angelica : 

“Father Mallory is my deadly enemy. He is 
constantly planning my ruin. I am sure it is he 
who is having us watched to-day. To state to you 
my plans for your escape would be to place both of 
us at his mercy, which is the crudest punishment. 
Our programme must be changed, but be assurred I 
will not forsake you.” 

While writing this note Louis Langford had kept 


200 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


up a constant conversation. He paused a moment 
to allow time for Sister Angelica to read it. She 
was satisfied in her own mind that they were beset 
by the eager minions of the church, and that their 
safety was only to be found in the greatest pru- 
dence. 

Father Louis said, with a deal of seriousness in 
his voice which was not at all affected, for he was 
oppressed by his surrounding circumstances : “I 
think Sister Angelica, that you ought to come into 
the communion of our holy church. I have been 
patient in my labor to teach, you its sublime doc- 
trines. She will be to you a blessed mother, afford- 
ing you consolation and hope. Are there any 
other objections in your mind too serious to be 
surmounted?” 

The answer came in tones plaintively sad. It 
was the speaking of a heart that was gradually los- 
ing its hold on hope. The thought of freedom that 
had been sustaining this frail young creature was 
giving way before the thought of dark and merci- 
less imprisonment. She answered sadly then : 

“There are many things about the Catholic 
Church that it seems impossible for me to accept. 
God has said : ‘Thou shalt not make unto thee 
any graven image, or any likeness of anything that 
is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, 
or that is in the water under the earth. Thou shalt 
not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them.’ 
Your church, Father Louis, is full of idols, full of 
images. And before these images Catholics are 


SISTER ANGELICA. 


201 


constantly bowing. How can you do it when God 
has spoken so plainly?” 

The wistfulness of those large pleading eyes cut 
Louis Langford like a knife. He endured the pain 
that a man only feels when a loved one is suffering, 
and he is powerless to render assistance. But he 
replied to her question : 

“We only use those images as helps to our wor- 
ship. We do not adore them. They assist in 
leading the mind up to God, whom we reverence 
and love.” 

“And yet the history of your church furnishes 
abundant evidence that the mass of your member- 
ship have believed that these relics and images 
possessed a supernatural power — could heal dis- 
eases and relieve the sick.” 

“There is a large number of people who can 
only be reached by placing something material 
before them as an aid to their spiritual conceptions. 
You must confess that we have reached this class 
much more efficiently than any of the so-called 
churches around us. ‘The end justifies the means,’ 
you know, is an old maxim of our church.” 

“Yes, and a most pernicious one. I could justify 
any horror by such a maxim. God says concern- 
ing images : ‘Thou shalt not bow thyself down to 
them,’ and your church says through her priests : 
‘Bow thyself down, for that is our way of reaching 
you.’ For shame. Father Louis I and to think, too, 
that you wish to convert me, to such a doctrine.” 

“But I insist that we do not use images in the 


202 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


sense to which God referred. We do not worship 
them, and they in no way rival Him.” 

“The Bible says, use them not, and I believe and 
accept the Bible. Its language is plain and its 
meaning clear. And besides, I could never con- 
sent to go to any man and open my heart to him as 
if he were God. I abhor every thing about the 
confessional. I should forever loathe myself, if I 
should sit and listen to some questions asked by 
men who claim to be vicegerents of God. Father 
Louis, I think you one of the most sincere and 
honest of men, and I plead with you to tell me 
frankly, do you believe in the confessional? Do 
you not know that it is full of dark crimes and dan- 
gerous secrets? Tell me truly, do you not away 
down in your soul of souls abhor it?” 

Sister Angelica leaned forward in her intense 
earnestness, and her white tapering fingers twined 
nervously around each other. Her breath came 
quick and short, and her brow would suddenly 
knit as if she were keenly suffering. 

As Louis Langford gazed on the frail, but beau- 
tiful creature before him, he could but recall the 
solemn and earnest protest of his sister against the 
confessional, on the eve of her departure from 
New York. He was not unconscious that the two 
women who were so dear to him, dearer than his 
own life, utterly detested this sacrament of the 
church. 

He crossed the room to Sister Angelica, took 
her slender hand in his own, and in his peculiarly 
rich, deep tones, said: 


SISTER ANGELICA. 


203 


“If I answer your question frankly and honestly, 
I can not say that I fully believe in the confessional. 
But over this point I have suffered untold anguish, 
for if I yield this, I yield Catholicism. It is an 

awful struggle and your tender heart ought to pity 
” 

me. 

“I do pity you ! I do,’’ came quivering from her 
lips “I know the danger you are in, and how I 
wish I could help you.” 

Father Louis gave a sudden start, then, lowering 
his voice, said : “We have spoken too loud. I 
fear we have been overheard. If so, it may prove 
fatal to us.” 

Then, after a pause, he added : “I feel that we 
are environed by danger, but I am resolved to save 
you, or die in the attempt.” 

At that instant, an unseen door was hurled open, 
and Father Mallory, with three other men, stood 
in their presence. Father Louis dropped Sister 
Angelica’s hand, as Mallory sneeringly hissed : 
“You will die, my young chicken, you will never 
save her.” 

A proud and defiant smile came to Louis Lang- 
ford’s face, as with a flashing eye, he placed him- 
self between Sister Angelica and the four intruders. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE ESCAPE. 

Mallory’s face was distorted with rage when he 
saw this act of the young man. 

“Ho, ho ! he snarled,” you are going to play the 
heroic, are you? Wliy, my villainous young fox, 
you are a bigger fool than I thought you were. 
We have trapped you this time, and there is not a 
shadow of a chance for you to escape.” 

He leered at Louis as if he enjoyed the scene 
with his whole heart. The sudden entrance of 
these men and the savage demeanor of Mallory had 
frightened Sister Angelica. She shrank back with 
a cowed and despairing look in her face. But 
Louis Langford stood erect, with his right hand 
thrust into his bosom and a defiant smile on his 
lips. He carried himself more like a soldier than 
a priest. 

“You are a fine looking wretch,” sneered Mai- 
lory. 

To this there was no reply. 

He continued: “We have overheard your 
treachery, and the proof is conclusive against you. 
You are a villain and a renegade, and we shall 
arrest you. Will you quietly surrender, or shall 

we take you like a dog?” 

204 


THE ESCAPE. 205 

“I shall neither surrender nor be taken,” said 
Louis, in a calm tone. 

“Thunderation !” yelled the priest. “Neither 
surrender nor be taken ! Listen at the audacious 
rascal will you I I tell you, my young cub, we 
will give you a lesson that you will never forget. 
Seize him, boys, and bind him hand and foot.” 

The men started forward to obey this command. 
Sister Angelica gave a little shriek which ended 
with the fruitless petition to spare him. Then she 
sank into one of the chairs, covered her face with 
her hands, and trembled like a leaf. 

In an instant the whole scene was changed, and 
an expression of surprise and dismay was on the 
faces of the advancing men. Father Mallory was 
looking down the cold barrel of a pistol, and the 
men paused. 

“Another step and your leader is a dead man,” 
from Louis. 

Neither the voice nor the hand trembled. 

Mallory muttered : “The devil.” 

He saw there a man who was both brave and cool, 
and he quailed before the fierce eye that guided the 
steady hand. He had gathered his clan for the 
easy task of capturing a lamb, but behold, a lion 
was standing across his path. He was thrown off 
his guard and bewildered, as he gazed helplessly 
into the gleaming barrel that pointed straight at his 
face. 

Louis spoke bitterly: “Father Mallory, you 
would not let me be a true priest, you have har- 


2o6 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


rassed me, you have hunted me down, you have 
tried to make me a criminal. Through your 
influence I was deceived into becoming a priest, 
but I had resolved to discharge with fidelity my 
oath. This small consolation was not allowed me. 
I must either submit tO persecution or sear my con- 
science with the fires which are ignited by infa- 
mous acts. I chose to do right, and for that choice 
I hav^e suffered. Know now that there are some 
practices to which you can not drive me, aye, more, 
I forever renounce your authority. I do not wish 
to stain my hands in blood, but I tell you now, 
beware how you cross my path in future.” 

He turned his head toward Sister Angelica, and 
asked : “Will you escape with me?” 

She sprang to her feet, all of a tremor, as she 
gasped the single word: “Yes.” 

“Come then.” 

They walked to the door, and the four men 
looked on in silence. Louis paused at the door 
and said : 

“If any man interferes with my escape, I shall 
kill him.” Then the door was closed and locked. 

“Follow me without a word — trust every thing 
to my guidance — keep perfectly calm — and we will 
clear the convent.” 

This to Sister Angelica, who replied: “I will, 
and may God bless you.” 

They passed through a large room into a smaller 
one, then out into a long hall, at the further end of 
which was the front door. They passed down the 
hall rapidly and silentl}^ 


THE ESCAPE. 


207 


“Would you please open the door?’’ asked 
Louis politely of a nun who was standing there 
counting her beads. 

She recognized the speaker, and, without a word, 
complied with his request. But a startled look 
came into her face, when Louis stepped aside to 
allow Sister Angelica first to go out. As he was a 
privileged person in the convent, she asked no 
questions. 

They passed out into the world and the convent 
walls were behind them. There was a wild bound 
at Sister Angelica’s heart, an impulsive throb of 
delight. Long days and nights that had painfully 
and slowly crept up into months and years were 
lying behind her, and freedom and the world were 
her possession now. The throbbings of joy were 
chilled somewhat by the cold, strange aspect of 
everything about her. 

But what should they do ? this was the question 
that was forcing itself on Louis’ attention. He 
knew too well the kind of characters with 
which he had to deal. He had little time to think ; 
he must act and act at once. 

They walked down the street as rapidly as they 
could, considering the feeble condition of Sister 
Angelica. The excitement gave her unusual 
strength, and she moved with a remarkable degree 
of vigor. But she was bare-headed and without 
wrappings, and the day was too cold for this, even 
if she were stronger. Louis noticed her trembling 
and thought her frightened. 


2o8 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“Do not be alarmed,” he said kindly. 

“I am not — with you as a protector,” she replied, 
and gave him a look of gratitude that was his full 
reward. 

“But you are trembling.” 

“A little chilly, only.” 

For the first time he noticed her exposed condi- 
tion, and he said, in self-reproach : “How careless 
in me not to observe that you had no wrappings. 
We must remedy this at once.” 

At the next store he purchased a heavy shawl 
and hood. These were enough to keep the deli- 
cate girl comfortable. 

When Louis and Angelica walked out of the 
room at the convent, they left a bewildered group 
behind them. But Mallory recovered himself and 
exclaimed, with an air of doubt, most uncommon 
with him : 

“The fool will surely not try to take her from 
the convent !” 

He reflected a moment, and then continued : 
“Yes, he will. He is desperate and will do 
anything.” 

A bitter smile was on his lips, and the fire of his 
fierce passion was burning in his little eyes. 

“Curse him. I’ll beat him yet,” he muttered 
between his set teeth. 

Then he spoke in a low tone to one of the group. 
This was Billy Golyn, nature’s own detective. 
The man repeated his last words, and, nodding his 
head, shambled away. 


THE ESCAPE. 


209 


As Louis came out of the store he saw a man 
dodge around the nearest corner. The movement 
was very quick and he caught a glimpse only of him. 
He was not sure that the man was trying to escape 
notice. But, as small as the incident seemed to be, 
it made him uneasy. What should he do? 

They walked about a square, when Louis sud- 
denly turned, and as he did, a figure vanished from 
sight. Bitterly he thought: “We are hunted.” 
And slowly his courage took on the form of des- 
peration, as he confronted the real difficulties that 
surrounded them. 

Sister Angelica was not accustomed to walking, 
and she showed evident signs of fatigue. She 
uttered no word of complaint. But Louis noticed 
the tired and worn expression of her face, and her 
weary step. He gave her a tender look, a look of 
infinite longing to bear her away from all trouble 
to some quiet haven of rest. But his heart sank 
within him as he reflected that the storm now was 
at its darkest. 

He called a passing carriage, and when they 
were seated in it, he said to the driver; “Straight 
ahead on this street till further orders.” Then he 
watched the movements behind them. 

A man shambled out from behind some obstruc- 
tion on the side-walk and signaled a hack. A 
moment later the hack was following in the wake 
of the carriage, suiting its speed to the speed of the 
latter. 

He changed his instructions to the driver, and 


210 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


when they would turn a corner, he would look back, 
only to see the hack sweeping after them. 

He had time to think now, and he thought rap- 
idly. He was satisfied that they were pursued — 
hunted. He felt certain that the pursuit was by the 
order of Mallory, and that the priest was not act- 
ing without a settled purpose. A desperate hope 
only, remained of escaping. But blood hounds 
follow a track with fatal certainty and deadly speed. 

They had been in the carriage near an hour, when 
he asked the driver: “How much do I owe you?” 

“One dollar.” 

“Very well. When you turn the next corner, 
stop suddenly, let us out, and drive immediately 
away. Go on as you have been for another hour. 
Here is your pay.” He handed him five dollars. 

“You must be quick now.” 

The man smiled approvingly on the money and 
nodded assent to his instructions. When they 
turned the next corner, he drew his horses up with 
an abrupt jerk ; Louis and Sister Angelica were 
out, and he was gone in a minute. 

“Here, into this store,” said Louis, as he hur- 
ried Sister Angelica out of sight. 

They were none too soon, for immediately a hack 
dashed by with a single occupant — but that occu- 
pant had the eyes of a lynx. He was sitting with 
his hands on his knees, leaning slightly forward — 
watching. 

The pursuer rushed on, and the pursued walked 
a few blocks, when they noticed a sign, on which 


THE ESCAPE. 


2II 


was painted, in large letters, the single word : 
Boarding. 

“We must spend the remainder of to-day and 
to-night somewhere in the city ; suppose we try 
here?” said Louis. 

Sister Angelica assented and Louis rang the 
bell, and the door was opened by a servant. “I 
should like to see the lady of the house.” 

“Will you take seats in the parlor till I caliber?” 

“Thank you.” 

They were alone for a moment, and he looked 
on his companion with sadness and sympathy. Her 
face was as strangely beautiful as her form was frag- 
ile. The silent eloquence of long years of suffer- 
ing was traced in every lineament of her counten- 
ance. No painter ever brought out the lines of 
patient endurance so skillfully as the bitter experi- 
ences of this girl had drawn them upon her fair 
young brow. There she sat with her mournful 
face and sad, expressive eyes. 

“You are sorely wearied,” said Louis. 

“Yes, but I am willing to be taxed to the utmost 
of my strength for the sake of liberty. Oh, do 
you think we can escape?” she asked impressively. 
Poor woman, her whole soul was in that question ! 

“I have an infinite faith in right,” he said. “If 
we do not escape now, we shall do so at some future 
time. Be of good cheer, my life shall protect yours.” 

Again that wondrous look of gratitude caused 
his blood to surge in his veins, and glow in his cheeks. 

“You have risked so much for me,” she began. 


212 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“poor worthless me, who have such a weak hold 
on life any way. The promises of the future are 
nothing ; what the world has to bestow, must be 
given in the present. But I fear all this risk will 
be unavailing ; I fear this anxiety to escape is the 
prelude to disappointment and cruel pain. The 
darkness seems so dense that we can not penetrate 
it. But I am the cause of all this effort, and if it 
were not for me you would have had no trouble. 
Now, you have luade bitter enemies who hate you. 
If they should capture you, what would your pun- 
ishment be?” 

The pale face was flushed, and her eyes sparkled 
with unwonted excitement. 

“Do not think of their capturing me,” he said, 
trying to avoid committing himself. 

“But if they should capture you,” she insisted. 

He smiled as he replied, “I should have, I sus- 
pect, to keep bachelor’s hall, in some dark cell on 
short rations.” 

She knew what this meant, and she shuddered. 
Then, in tones of piteous entreaty : “I beseech you, 
escape. Alone, you can get away, but with such a 
burden as I, you will surely be caught. You have 
a long life before you of happiness and service, and 
I am only a broken reed, a wreck, standing on the 
verge of the tomb. Do not sacrifice yourself for 
me. The sacrifice is too great, the compensation 
is too small. Go, please go ! I plead with all my 
strength ; flee, before it is too late, my brave and 
generous preserver.” 


THE ESCAPE. 


213 


She had come close to him, stood before him 
with clasped hands ; tears were in her eyes and 
agony in her voice. 

Louis trembled like an aspen. A tumult of 
emotion was surging and throbbing through every 
vein. He gazed into the fair face and delicate 
form before him, while words of impassionate love 
crowded to his lips. But he was her protector — 
and there was his priestly vow. The blood rushed 
from his face, and seemed to be gathering and 
freezing about his heart. With a mighty effort, 
he controlled himself and spoke calmly: 

“Sister Angelica, you do not know, you can not 
know, what you say. Can you think me so mean 
as to desert you? I could never respect myself 
after so base a deed. I may be bound, hand and 
foot, and torn away from you, but of my own free 
will, I shall never forsake you, until you are in the 
full enjoyment of your liberty.” 

“Oh, you are so good and brave,” she said, 
“but you are worth so much more than I am. Do 
go away and save yourself, and I shall never forget 
you, no never!” 

He leaned toward her a little, with a strange 
light in his large, brown eyes, and said in an 
unsteady voice, and as if he were speaking to him- 
self : “Never forget me, there is nothing that I would 
not face for such a boon as that — save dishonor.” 

The intensity of his utterance brought the color 
to her cheek. He noticed this, and could have bitten 
off his tongue for his unguarded utterance. He was 


ii4 


feARNESt LEIGHTOi^. 


stung by self-reproach and his face was crimsorl 
with shame. 

But he stammered only: “I beg your pardon.’^ 
The conversation was here interrupted by the 
entrance of a lady, who showed plainly her surprise 
at the attitude and excitement of her two visitors. 

Louis stepped forward and handed the lady his 
card, and also introduced his companion as Sister 
Angelica. He was disconcerted and scarcely 
knew how to proceed, and as a result there was a 
moment of embarrassing silence. 

The lady asked them to be seated, and turned to 
Sister Angelica with the remark : 

“You look as if you were suffering.” 

“I am not well, thank you.” 

The lady said to Louis : “I believe sir, you wished 
to see me. May I ask your business?” 

“We should like lodging for to-night.” 

“ Do you live in the city?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

There was silence for a moment. The lad}^ 
appeared to be a little suspicious and was not sure 
what course was right, while Louis was at a loss 
what plea to advance. His life had been open 
and frank, and he was not gifted in double dealing. 
He felt that they occupied a questionable position, 
yet he feared the consequences of an explanation. 

“Can you entertain us ?” He said this at a venture, 
feeling that, at least, it would force a conclusion. 

“I scarcely know what to say. You look like a 
priest, and this lady has surely been an inmate of 


I’HE ESCAPE. 


the convent. I have no right to ask an explana- 
tion, and I do not wish to be impertinent, but there 
is certainly something mysterious about your 
behavior. I have no desire to get myself into 
trouble by having my house the center of a sensa- 
tion. This is suggested by my personal interest 
and is intended only as a precaution. I trust, sir, 
that you will not feel wounded at what I have said.’’ 

Louis replied : “Madam, we shall be frank with 
you and throw ourselves on your mercy. We 
should regret to bring any reproach on your house, 
or that we should become the central figures of a 
sensation. This lady has been the inmate of a 
convent, and its discipline is slowly but surely kill- 
ing her. I wish to take her away to save her life. 
We have escaped thus far, but I can not leave the city 
without some further arrangements. We wish a 
retired place to stay the rest of the day and through 
the night. Early to-morrow we will go away. 
These are briefly the facts in the case. Will you 
turn this lady away, who comes to you sick and 
worn out seeking a night’s shelter only?” 

“I believe you, sir, and you both are welcome to 
all my house affords. I could not turn one away 
who shows so plainly the ravages of disease as this 
young lady.” 

“We thank you kindly,” said Angelica, “and 
now would you be so kind as to show me my room 
that I may rest till tea?” 

The lady assented. 

“In the mean time,” said Louis, “I will see to 


2i6 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


some business that demands my attention this 
evening.” 

A look from Sister Angelica which plainly said : 
“I beseech you to be on your guard.” 

As Louis Langford went out, he paused a 
moment on the steps and looked carefully around, 
but saw no one. A small grocery was on the 
corner of the street diagonal across from where he 
stood, and a pair of eyes were peering through the 
window of that grocery. Their ow ner was hidden 
behind some boxes. A new light cam^ into those 
sinister eyes as the young man paused on the door- 
steps. And as Louis walked down the street, a 
nervous figure shambled out of the door and 
followed him. 

Louis first went to the bank and drew some 
money. He kept his eyes well about him, but saw 
nothing to excite his suspicion. Then he went to 
a large furnishing establishment, and bought some 
articles that were evidently intended for a woman. 
As he left the store, he said reflectively: “These 
will sufficiently disguise her.” 

He went out of the store and looked carefully up 
and down the street. He saw nothing to awaken 
his distrust, but in reality a figure had just shambled 
into an alley. It was already growing late, and 
Louis started for the boarding-house where he had 
left Angelica. As he approached the locality, he 
became more cautious. He eyed every one. He 
went several blocks out of his way, and at last 
approached the house rapidly and entered with the 


THE ESCAPE. 21 ^ 

hope that he had been unobserved. He vyas ready- 
now to leave the city at the first opportunity. 

Five minutes after he had entered the house, a 
little scene was enacted in the grocery on the 
corner. One of the proprietors stepped behind a 
tier of boxes that was ranged along one side of the 
house. Behind these boxes a man was crouched. 
The proprietor looked at him suspiciously for a 
moment, and then thundered out : 

“What the deuce are you doing here? 

“Doing here ! only resting a bit,” the man said. 

“Why, I’ve seen you skulking about here all 
day,” roared the proprietor. 

“Skulking about all day. Oh, no.” 

The proprietor said threateningly: “Now, let 
me tell you. I’ll call the police if you don’t move 
on in a hurry.” 

“In a hurry ! oh, yes. I’ll move on.” And a 
nervous figure shambled out of the door, dodged 
around the corner and was gone. The proprietor 
went on with his business, muttering something 
about dead-beats. But he was mistaken in the 
character of his visitor — he was not a dead-beat. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


TROUBLE AGAIN. 

Just before tea two men came to the same house 
where Louis had taken lodging, and asked if they 
could be accommodated with board. They came 
from Buffalo, so they said, and were carpenters by 
trade. These men were strangers in the city and 
were hunting work. As they had little baggage^ 
they voluntarily proposed to pay their board in 
advance. 

Physically speaking, they were large, rough men, 
and looked as if they might be as strong as oxen- 
They had not the best of faces, yet they were gentle- 
manly in appearance, told their story frankly, and 
were not at all suspicious in their actions. It was 
very common to have such applications for lodging. 
The lady said she would board them, and, with 
true business insight, accepted a week’s payment 
in advance. 

At supper they sat on the opposite side of the 
table from Louis, and talked incessantly about 
business — the probability of their getting into 
employment and the like. Louis ate in silence, and 
was deeply thoughtful. Once or twice he fancied 
those men were watching him furtively. But on 
second thought, he attributed this suspicion to his 


TROUBLE AGAIN. 


219 


nervous condition, especially as they appeared quite 
harmless. Sister Angelica complained of being too 
weary, and did not come down to supper. 

When they were through eating, the two men 
went out — to look at the city, they said. They 
addressed each other familiarly by the names of 
Tom and Burke. They stopped on the street, near 
the door, and Tom said : 

“That was the chap just across from us at the 
table.’’ 

“Yes,” said Burke, “but where is the girl, you 
reckon?” 

“She is around somewhere, but she is not our 
game,” and with this they moved away. 

It was after 10 o’clock when they returned. 
There was a single jet of gas burning dimly in the 
lower hall. The other halls were dark. Louis 
Langford’s room was on the second floor — the first 
door on reaching the landing. A light was still 
burning in his room. He had been maturing his 
plans for the next day — plans that were destined 
never to be carried out. 

He was on the eve of retiring, when he heard 
steps in the hall, and then a light tap at his door. 
He opened it, and there stood the two workmen. 
Tom acted as spokesman : 

“Hope you will excuse us for disturbing you, 
but we saw a light in your room and thought to ask 
you a few questions.” 

While speaking, he quietly pushed himself into 
the room without an invitation from Louis who 


220 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


had not opened the door very wide. Burke fol- 
lowed his companion in a manner equally 
insinuating. 

“Good manners/’ thought Louis, but he 
accepted the situation, and asked them to take 
seats. 

“Been living in the city long?” from Tom. 

“I was born here.” 

“Ah!” 

No remark from Louis on this exclamation. He 
was annoyed at this intrusion, and clearly showed it. 

“Are you acquainted with many carpenters?” 

“A few.” 

“How’s that kind of business now?” 

“Tolerably good, I should judge.” 

At this moment the following change of positions 
took place ; Louis arose and stood with his back 
toward the fire, with his hands crossed behind him. 
Burke leaned on the mantel near Louis, but a little 
in rear of his position. Tom took from his pocket 
a large silk handkerchief and rubbed his nose. 

“Should like to find work soon,” from Tom. 

The man at the mantel made a quick movement, 
seized Louis’ hands, and held them with the grip of 
iron. In an instant his companion had one hand 
on the back of Louis’ head, with a firm grip in his 
hair, while with the other he pressed the silk hand- 
kerchief against his mouth. 

Louis made a desperate effort to free himself, 
but they held him like a vise. They no longer had 
the air of carpenters, but showed the skill of 


TROUBLE AGAIN. 


221 


experts. They were cool and determined. Louis 
soon saw that all his efforts were unavailing, and 
he quietly submitted to the inevitable. With a 
bitter pang, he thought of Sister Angelica. 

“So you thought to skip out and leave us, did 
you, my covy?” said Tom. “Well, I should post- 
pone my trip indefinitely, if I were in your place. 

Tis’nt kind to run off from old friends in any such 
way. Better be content to sta}^ a little longer.” 

Louis made no reply for the simple reason that 
the capacity of the handkerchief prevented any 
such social effort. But soon a pair of hand-cuffs 
were slipped on his wrists, and a gag took the place 
of the handkerchief. Burke thrust his hand into 
his pocket and withdrew a small lantern, which he 
lighted and waived several times to and fro on the 
outside of the window. He then blew it out and 
again placed it in his pocket. 

Tom adjusted a sling-shot to his wrist, and step- 
ping in front of Louis, said : 

“The first effort to attract attention will be fol- 
lowed by a blow from this,” and he shook the shot 
in his face. “I think one lick will be enough. Be 
quiet and do as we bid you, and you shall not be 
hurt, but try to escape and you are a goner.” 

Burke took Louis by the arm, and Tom walked 
immediately behind him so as to strike him if he 
made the least resistance. The halls were empty 
and they passed quietly into the street. A light 
wagon was at the rear of the house, having come at 
the signal from the window. They all entered 


222 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


this and drove away into the night. Louis knew 
his own situation was desperate, but he thought 
more of the helpless woman that he was leaving 
behind than of himself. 

* * * ♦ 

Early next morning a carriage drew up at the 
boarding-house, and the Superior of St. Mary’s 
Convent rang at the door. When the bell was 
answered, she asked for Sister Angelica. 

“Be seated in the parlor,” said the lady, “and we 
will send for the person you wish to see.” 

“Will you not show me directly to her room?” 

The lady hesitated a moment, but replied : “I 
should prefer that my boarders would receive their 
company in the parlor.” 

“Ver}^ well. Madam.” 

“Whom shall I announce?” 

“Mother Byxbee of St. Mary’s Convent.” 

Sister Angelica had just finished her toilet when 
her hostess entered. 

“I fear I have bad news for you,” said the lady. 

“What?” in evident alarm. 

“Mother Byxbee of St. Mary’s Convent wishes 
to see you.” 

A deathly pallor overspread the face that for one 
brief night had something of hope in it. Sister 
Angelica clung to her chair for support, she was 
trembling so violently. 

“I must see Father Louis,” she gasped. 

“Poor dear,” said the lady compassionately, 
“Fll call him.” 


TROUBLE AGAIN. 


223 

She went in search of Louis, and Angelica sank 
into a chair, with a strange, smothered feeling at 
her heart. 

“My heart is breaking,’’ she cried, as she 
pressed her hands to her side. “Oh, my Father, 
my Father, is there nothing but death for me !” 

She swayed to and fro, like some tender flower, 
struggling against the storm. The landlady returned 
in consternation : 

“His room is empty and we can not find him 
anywhere. His bed is untouched ; he surel}^ left 
early in the night.” The lady talked excitedly. 

Sister Angelica raised her head when the lady 
began speaking, but when she ceased to speak, a 
single word forced itself through her white lips : 
“Gone !” with an accent of infinite sadness. 

The good heart of the lady was touched by this 
image of despair, and she seized Angelica’s cold 
hands, and said, as tears ran down her cheeks : 
“Do not look that way. Do cheer up, some help 
will surely come.” 

The marble lips opened and breathed out : 
“Never.” 

“Oh, my dear, you are too good to suffer so. 
I’ll do all I can for you, only keep up your spirits.” 

Here she was interrupted by a messenger from 
the Superior, who had grown impatient at the delay. 

“What did she say, Lucy?” asked the lady of 
her maid. 

“She said she must see the young lady at once.” 


p 


224 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


The lady turned her eyes to Sister Angelica for 
an answer. 

“I do not want to see her; oh, I wish I could 
run away from her sight forever,” and again she 
broke down with her grief. 

“Wait!” exclaimed the lady, and she walked 
resolutely out of the room and down into the parlor. 
There she confronted the Superior. 

“The young lady does not wish an interview,” 
she said, imploringly. 

“But I must see her,” coolly from the Superior. 

“She has declined to come down.” 

“Will you allow me to go to her room?” 

“I can not do so without her consent.” The confi- 
dent appearance of the Superior was having its 
effect on the lady. 

“You are nut aware, possibly, that she escaped 
from St. Mary’s Convent. I have a legal right 
over her and can have her arrested. I should prefer 
to take her back quietly, but if compelled to, I will 
resort to force. Shall I call a policeman?” 

This staggered the lady, for the Superior spoke 
in a firm but courteous tone. But she replied : 

“I shall speak to the young lady.” 

Sister Angelica listened to her recital in a pass- 
ive way, then she arose as if she had a burden 
heavier than she could bear. 

“I thank you,” she said, “for your kindness, but 
you can not help me now. I have never known 
one to escape from St. Mary’s Convent — except to 
the grave. It will not be long till I find rest within 


TROUBLE AGAIN. 


225 


its shelter. Others besides me have had a taste of 
freedom, only to be dragged back to a more pain- 
ful imprisonment. But I shall always remember 
that you were willing to help me, and that you spoke 
kindly to me. Good-bye, and may God bless you.” 

She held out her pale, thin hand, and the lady 
seized it, while the tears streamed down her 
cheeks. She sobbed : “Oh, my dear, how I wish 
I could help you.” 

The frail woman went to the parlor where she 
met her Superior. She bowed to her and said : 

“I am ready. Mother Byxbee.” 

“Then we will go at once,” is replied. 

After one more tearful farewell to the stranger 
who had been so kind to her, Angelica entered 
the carriage, followed by the Superior. As they 
drove rapidly along the street, the Superior said : 

“So you thought to run away from us did you?” 

“Mother Byxbee, I was dying to get away from 
the confinement of that convent, and how could 1 
resist an opportunity of escaping? My constitu- 
tion is too shattered for me to be of any service to 
you. Please do not be too cruel to me.” 

“Oh, you merit kind treatment no doubt.” 

Sister Angelica started, and looked at the 
woman by her side. Then like the wail of a lost 
life, she cried : 

“Is there no depth of human woe that can touch 
your sympathies? M}^ poor body is tortured and 
my soul is crushed, and yet you can taunt me with 
bitter words. Oh, my God, my God.” She 


EARNEST lEiGHTON. 


±26 

wrung her hands in this moment of her terrible grief. 

The carriage rolled on through the great city, 
and presently drew up at the door of the convent. 
Angelica tottered up the steps — the same ones that 
she had come down so hopeful the day before. 
The Superior led her to a cell and she staggered 
across the threshold. 

“We shall leave you by yourself for awhile,” the 
Superior said, “and see how you enjoy it.” Then 
she closed the door and locked it. 

As we have seen, this woman was not altogether 
bad. But she prided herself on the discipline of 
her house, and she could scarcely forgive one who 
had tried to escape. On this day, she was in her 
cruelest mood, and a deed was to be done of which 
she should repent. 

When the door closed, Angelica threw up her 
hands and cried : 

“Alone, alone, all through these dark nights and 
days ! Oh, my Father, I can not bear it.” 

She sank into a chair, her head dropped on the 
table, and the hard wood became crimson as the 
hemorrhage flowed from her lips. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A CONNECTING LINK. 

Earnest was not grateful to Gerould for interrupt- 
ing his conversation with Marabel. She was on 
the eve of a revelation that he had long and earn- 
estly wished. He was satisfied that the real pathos 
in his story had won her confidence, and then the 
opportunity for communicating all she wished was 
so favorable. That it should fail on account of 
Gerould, who had enjoyed Marabel’s company all 
evening, was simply intolerable. 

Earnest bit his lip and was silent. The color 
came and went in Marabel’ s face. She was evi- 
dently embarrassed. The quick eye of Gerould 
saw all this, and he was delighted, and, also, the 
least bit annoyed. 

“Oh,” he said, ‘T wish I were in Guinea. I 
have disturbed a most entertaining couple. I am 
remorseful — very ; but it would look bad to run 
away now, though I long to flee from your siglit. 
Besides, the Madam has commissioned me to bring 
Miss Langford to the piano, as there has been a 
general call for music. I beg a thousand pardons,” 
to Earnest. “Will Miss Langford do me the 
honor to comply with the Madam’s request?” and 
he offered his arm. 


227 


'228 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


She accepted it coolly, and with a quiet excuse 
to Earnest, walked away with Gerould. 

“I wish he was in Guinea, too,” ejaculated 
Earnest as he again looked out into the quiet night. 

This was the last opportunity he had during the 
evening to converse with Marabel. Several other 
young gentlemen claimed her attention so as en- 
tirely to exclude Earnest. So when he and Ger- 
ould took their leave he was out of spirits and out 
of humor. Gerould was radiant. They walked 
along in silence till they nearly reached home, 
when Earnest said : 

“Gerould, you are a wretch.” 

“I confess it,” with a happy smile. 

“You are a brute.” 

“At your service, sir,” and he slipped his hand 
through the arm of Earnest with a cheerful coun- 
lenance for a — brute. 

“Now, you are a hypocrite. You want to con- 
ciliate me, do you? It is no use; I am seriousl}^ 
offended. I shall not be easiN appeased.” 

“But I am penitent.” 

“Pshaw!” with a manifest contempt. “You 
would do the same thing over to-morrow if you had 
an opportunity.” 

“But reflect how great the temptation was which 
merits some consideration.” Then he went off at 
a tangent. “Oh, I have spent such a jolly evening, 
perfectly delicious. She is a charmer, above all 
her sex. When she is Mrs. Gerould Wingrove, 
you shall come to see us, old fellow, and stay a 


A CONNECTING LINK. 


229 

week — no, a year. But it did look mean to slip in 
on you when you had everything so nice in the 
alcove. Hang it, I ought to have been in your 
place, and I should have settled the matter 
to-night. How did you manage to decoy her into 
such a happy retreat?” 

They had reached their gate and Earnest said 
coldly : 

“Suppose we drop this subject, it is unpleasant 
to me to-night. 

A surprised and puzzled look was on Gerould’s 
face, but he only said : “Certainly.” He was too 
happy to be uncharitable, and yet he did wonder 
what had so suddenly come over his friend. “In 
love with her, too. I’ll bet,” was the conclusion of 
his hrief speculation. “I am so sorry for him,” 
was his next thought, which, in one respect, did 
justice to his heart. 

Earnest lay awake that night studying over the 
problem of his life. There had slowly grown up 
in his heart, the worthy desire to gather up the 
facts that constituted his history from his child- 
hood until now. This wish had been immensely 
stimulated by his conversation with Marabel. He 
was resolved to mature a plan which he would carry 
into effect as soon as his college term closed. 

The impressions he had of his early life satisfied 
him that his father had been wealthy. What had 
become of this property? He could not escape 
asking himself this question, nor could he escape a 
deepening desire for a conclusive answer. That 


230 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

his half uncle had some connection with his 
father’s estate, he did not for one moment doubt. 
He resolved to investigate the whole matter, and, 
if possible, secure what was rightly his own. 

A little before day he fell asleep and as a result 
he was late at breakfast. When he came to the 
table, he found Mrs. Stanley and a gentleman 
only. The other hoarders had been to breakfast 
and left the house. Mrs. Stanley introduced the 
gentleman as her son, who was doing business in 
New York. 

“I had some business in Louisville and thought 
to pay mother a flying visit,”he said. He was a 
middle-aged man, gentlemanly in appearance and 
behavior. 

He continued : “It is a pleasure to get out of the 
city and enjoy country life for a little while.” 

“I suppose so,” responded Earnest, “though I 
have had no experience of city life since I was a 
small boy. I was born in New York.” 

“Indeed,” looking up with interest. They were 
alone at the table now, Mrs. Stanley having left. 

“Yes, I was some twelve years old when I left 
there.” 

“When I first went to New York, I was clerk 
in the store of a man by your name. No relation, I 
suppose?” 

“What was his given name?” with evident 
interest. 

“William.” 

“That was my father’s name.” 


A CONNECTING LINK. 


231 


“Is it possible? What became of your father?” 

“He died of the cholera.” 

“When it raged as an epidemic in the city?” 

“Yes.” 

Mr. Stanley sprang to his feet excitedly. “Give 
me your hand, 3^oung man, you are an old acquaint- 
ance. I shall never forget the last time I saw your 
father. True to his nature, he came to see me at 
the hospital when I had the cholera. It was a ter- 
rible risk to run, as events proved. I shall always 
remember ho^^ he trembled and staggered when he 
left the hospital. It filled me with gloom}^ forbod- 
ings, and when I heard from him he was dead. 
And you are the son of William Leighton?” He 
held his hand and looked at him earnestly. 

“Yes, I am the son of William Leighton.” 

“Well, he was a good man and I am indebted to 
him for man}' a favor. I fear I was the innocent 
cause of his taking the cholera, that resulted in the 
death of himself and wife. I am glad to meet you, 
for I shall never forget your father.” 

He released Earnest’s hand and took his seat, 
but continued to speak: “Those were terrible 
times. It makes my blood run cold to think about 
it. I thought every body was dying. I suppose I 
should have closed my earthly account if it had not 
been for the Catholics. They took me to one of 
their hospitals and nursed me through. I owe them 
a debt I can never repay. But my great calamity 
was the death of your father. Sir, he was a most 
excellent man.” 


232 ]:\:iXEST EEK^HTON. 

Ecirneyt said with much eagerness: “Tt is cer- 
tainly a great pleasure to know one who was 
acquainted with my father. How long were you 
in his service?” 

“About five years.” 

“Then you know well the details of his business ?’ ’ 

“Certainly, very well indeed.” 

Earnest spoke with suppressed excitement: “I 
am almost wholly ignorant of my family. I have 
a faint recollection of facts connected with my 
childhood, but they are scattered afid unsatisfac- 
tory. I can not tell you how deep an interest I feel 
in one who has known my father and mother. 
Then you can tell me many things I have longed to 
know through all these years.” 

“You say you are not familiar with your family 
history?” 

“I am not.” 

“Ah!” 

Mr. Stanley was surprised, and he began to col- 
lect certain lost points in the events of the past. 
He was first to speak : 

“I never thought of it before, I was so surprised 
to meet you , but there is a mystery about your being 
here. It seems to me that you, someway, dropped 
out of sight awhile after the death of your father. 
I remember there was some talk about it, but I have 
forgotten the particulars. I supposed you were in 
the hands of your uncle.” 

“The truth is, I was in the hands of my uncle, 
but I ran away from him. But he never spoke of 


4 


A CONNECTING LINK. 233 

my father, and since I left I have heard nothing of 
him.” 

“It might have been better if you had not run 
away.” 

“There is no profit in discussing that question. 
But can you tell me whether my father was rich or 
poor?” 

“Me was rich, very rich.” 

“What became of his property?” 

“I can not fully answer that question. When I 
recovered, I remained in the store "until the goods 
were closed out and the house rented. It was 
reported that Father Manning had charge of your 
father’s estate, and a lawyer of his saw to the 
business of the store. I suppose he still holds the 
propert}^ in trust. In the case of your death he 
would be the next heir — wait, did you not have a 
sister?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where is she?” 

“Father Manning says she is dead.” 

“He says she is dead ! Do you not know it?” 

“No.” 

“More mystery than ever.” 

Earnest made no explanation, but asked: “Do 
you think Father Manning still holds my property?” 

“Yes, I do not see how he could dispose of it 
])efore your death.” 

They talked much longer, and Earnest was satis- 
lied that he had interests in New York demanding 
his personal attention. He resolved to go thither 
so soon as the summer vacation should come. 


CHAPTER XX. 


LOVE. 

Since the last conversation noted between Earn- 
est and Marabel, they had frequently met. But the 
latter had become suddenly reticent on the subject 
that vitally interested the former. She avoided all 
reference to New York, and evaded every remark 
that might introduce the objectionable theme. 

It was already the beginning of January, and the 
season so far had been one of unusual gayety. 
Gerould Wingrove still continued to monopolize as 
much of Marabel’ s company as possible. But he 
was no longer the gay Gerould of a few weeks 
before. He was far more silent, and was fond of 
solitary walks. This genial young fellow was 
standing in the presence of the great passion of his 
life. He was passing a limit back of which he 
would never return. The delicious sweetness of 
his first love was embittered by a doubt that had 
lately come into his heart to drive away all peace. 

Gradually Gerould and Earnest had ceased to 
speak to each other about Marabel. They con- 
versed on every topic save the one that had an 
absorbing interest to both of them. But about this 
time an event occurred that was annoying to Earnest 

Leighton. The society of which he was a mem- 
234 


LOVE. 


235 


ber determined to have an open session, to be held 
immediately after the Christmas holiday. He was 
chosen as one of the four debaters. But his 
arrangements compelled him to leave Lexington 
before a question had been selected. He promised 
to abide by the decision of the two leaders, and 
they were to notify him as early as possible after 
the subject for discussion had been determined. 
This notification never reached him until after his 
return, and only some four days before the 
appointed time. 

Just on the eve of his departure he engaged 
Marabel’s company for the exhibition ; and 
immediately on his return the question was handed 
him, and it read as follows: “Affirmed, that the 
Catholic Confessional is contrary to the genius of 
our American Institutions.’’ He was an affirm- 
ant. 

Delicac}^ of feeling was one of the characteristics 
of Earnest. Under ordinary circumstances no 
topic could have been selected upon which he 
would have more cheerfully displayed his didactic 
skill. But on this occasion he had sought the 
company of a Catholic lady, and he felt that it was 
treating her rudely for him to engage in the 
controversy. 

He made an earnest endeavor to have the sub- 
ject changed, but in this he failed. Some of the 
disputants were absent, and would not return till 
the evening on which the society held its open 
session. In view of this fact, it was impossible to 
select another question. 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


236 

’ He sought then for a substitute, but in this he 
was equally unsuccessful. His general informa- 
tion on the question was everywhere acknowledged, 
and the society was not willing to release him 
without the best of reasons. He hesitated to give 
the true reason. It would have connected his 
name with Miss Langford’s in such a manner as to 
be unpleasant, especially when we consider the 
natural trickiness of college boys. Fie was unwill- 
ing to be victimized by his class-mates. 

As he strolled to his room from the society hall, 
on that evening, he was in rather low spirits. It 
was a definite case of eiinui. He did on that 
occasion what every young man does under like 
circumstances : he severely reprobated his actions. 
He was constantly throwing himself in the society 
of a lady whom he ought not to love. Every day 
she was getting more and more into his heart. 
This was just like a woman, and he knew it. But 
he still continued to seek her company, as danger- 
ous as he knew it to be. He promised himself of 
course, in common with all men, that eveiy visit 
should be the last one, when in reality it was only 
a stimulant for another. 

He reached the yard-gate of his boarding-house, 
and, leaning on it, he gazed up into the sweet face 
of the clear starry night. It was full of solemn 
splendor, and its glory was in his soul. The even- 
ing wind, as it sighed among the barren branches, 
the silent depth of the heavens, the far away sky, 
the bright night-watcliers, that were holding their 


LOVE. 


237 


sentinel positions in the great field above — all 
filled his heart with a strange mysterious rapture. 
How precious in such moments is the memory of 
the dead ! Earnest Leighton reached out his arms, 
and his noble face was all aglow, as he murmured : 
“Oh my mother, my precious mother, is your 
home up there?” His head sank upon his arm, 
and the glow passed from his face, as there came 
back to him the thought of his condition. With a 
pained, empty feeling in his heart, he opened the 
gate, passed through into the house, and closed the 
night without. 

The morning came at last, though the hours 
were long and sleepless. Earnest Leighton had 
been fighting, with the courage of desperation, the 
love of his heart. It was a hopeless conflict, 
although he thought he was the victor. He arose 
from his bed, walked across the room, and gazed 
out on the young morning. There is something 
in the freshness of early day that gives a man 
strength. His first thoughts were of Marabel, and 
he said to himself half bitterly: “I was a very 
great fool in loving her. ’ Even if I could win her, 
I could never gain my consent fp marry her. This 
visiting her is all wrong, and I will quit it.” There 
was a momentary pleasure in this determination — 
it would end in more than momentary pain. 

Just then that troublesome debate came to his 
mind, and his brow clouded. But he determined 
on an open, manly course. He would call on 
Marabel, state all the facts to her, and then be 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


238 

governed by her decision. This would furnish him 
with a pretext for paying her an extra visit, but 
he made no such acknowledgement to himself. 

It was in the afternoon that he walked across to 
Mrs. Livingston’s. He had to wait but a few 
moments befure Marabel Langford made her 
appearance. He had already determined what he 
would say to her, but her presence had the won- 
derful effect of scattering his thoughts. They 
spent a full half hour in conversation before Earnest 
could approach the main topic that prompted his 
visit. He made several staggering attempts, 
which at last resulted in his saying : 

“You have not forgotten. Miss Marabel, the 
open session on Thursday evening?” 

“Oh, no,” she replied: “I have been promis- 
ing myself much pleasure on that evening. I 
believe Mr. Leighton is one of the speakers,” she 
added archly. 

“To m}^ regret, I am,” rejoined Earnest. 

“I can not regret that you are,” she said sin- 
cerely. “We enjoy the efforts of our friends 
and acquaintances more than those of strangers. 
I know no one in the society except yourself and 
Mr. Wingrove.” 

There was a momentary pause, in which Earn- 
est bit his lips, and then: “Do you know the 
question for discussion, Miss Marabel?” 

“No, sir, I do not,” she replied. And then 
noticing his troubled and embarrassed face, she 
asked: “Is the question a very serious one, Mr. 
Leighton? you look very solemn.” 


LOVE. 


239 


“Yes,” he said, “to me it is. I came over to 
tell you all about it. During my absence, the boys 
selected a question which involves the discussion 
of the Confessional of your church. At this late 
day I can not succeed in getting it changed. I can 
not tell what you will think of me for accompanying 
you to our society hall for the purpose of hearing 
me declaim against your religion. I feel greatly 
humiliated, and hardly know what to suggest. 
You can scarcely deem me mean enough to seek 
such an opportunity to prejudice you against your 
faith.” 

“I am not afraid of being proselyted by your 
society, Mr Leighton,” said Marabel, in her 
proud, imperious way. 

“Miss Langford is aware that I meant nothing 
of that sort,” rejoined Earnest, in a pained tone. 
“I felt, under the circumstances, that it would be 
discourteous in me to accompany you without first 
informing you of this fact. I beg your pardon if I 
have said anything to wound you, and if you are 
not sensitive on this matter, I will most gladly call 
on Thursday evening.” Earnest’s face was flushed, 
and he had the appearance of being greatly 
annoyed. 

Marabel’s quick eye detected this, and she felt 
she had done him an injustice. Her vhole 
demeanor was changed in an instant, her bewitch- 
ing, fatal smile was on her lips, as she said: / 
should beg your pardon. It was generous in you 
to come to tell me of what you feared would be 


240 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


unpleasant to me. I did wrong in misjudging you 
for a single moment. Now I shall gladly go with 
you, and I do not wish you to mar your speech on 
account of my presence. I want to hear every- 
thing you can say against the Confessional.” As 
she said this, there came into her eyes a wistful 
look, that gradually faded away before the 
approach of tears. 

The face of Earnest was eloquent in its sym- 
pathy, for he knew full well that those tears were 
called up by some sad memories. 

He hesitated a moment, and then said, with a 
slight tremor in his voice : “Am I to understand. 
Miss Marabel, that you really have an interest in 
the subject we propose to discuss?” 

Again that wistful, far away look came into her 
eyes, and she replied, in a voice of saddest music : 
“Yes, a very, very deep interest do I feel in the 
Confessional.” 

She was silent for a few seconds, and then con- 
tinued, with that deep, passionate utterance that 
always characterized her when under the influence 
of some strong feeling: “Mr. Leighton, we 
Catholics have struggles as well as you Protestants. 
Our hearts are tortured by all the bitterness of 
doubt. We are placed upon the rack of our own 
conflicting opinions, and it is to us an Inquisition. 
I do not mean that this is true of all of us ; it is onl}^ 
true of a part. But I belong to that sad part. I 
had a mother once,” there were tears in her eyes 
now, “and when we laid her away she left me as 


LOVE. 


241 


an only token a Bible. O, how I have hugged 
that to my heart, how I have pressed it to my lips, 
how I have dreamed over its comforting lessons ! 
This Bible has raised in my own mind — ” 

Just then there was a knock on the door, and, 
without waiting for a reply, it was opened, and 
Father Neigler entered. He cast a sharp, warning 
glance at Marabel, and then suddenly changing 
countenance, he approached Earnest with extended 
hand, saying : “Ah, Mr. Leighton, glad to see you, 
glad to see you, sir.’’ 

Earnest returned the salutation with a marked 
absence of fervor, and the expression of Marabel’s 
face very clearly indicated that she resented the 
intrusion as an insult. But neither the one nor the 
other seemed to have any effect on the priest, for 
he seated himself with a self-satisfied air, and 
opened the conversation by remarking * 

“Fine, fresh evening, my dear sir, fine evening.” 

“The steady, cold weather that we have had for 
several days is altogether agreeable,” rejoined 
Earnest, dryly. 

“Oh, delightful, sir, delightful, so much better 
than an open winter.” 

Earnest, thinking this remark needed no reply, 
said to Marabel : “Miss Langford must excuse me 
now, but I shall gratify myself by calling early on 
Thursday evening.” 

“I shall expect you then,” said Marabel, rising, 
“a little in advance of the society hour.” 

When the door closed behind Earnest, Marabel 


242 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


Langford confronted Father Neigler. There was 
indignation and contempt in her deep blue eyes, 
mingled with a certain vague expression of 
hopelessness. 

But the priest himself is worthy of one word of 
description. He was below rather than above the 
average size. He was of a sallow complexion, with 
deep set eyes, and a high, narrow head. His 
hands were long and bony, nervous and twitching. 
There was a careless shabbiness about his dress, and 
a stiff rigidness about his person. There was 
nothing at all prepossessing about the man, save 
only the indefinable consciousness that you were in 
the presence of a person who possessed an inex- 
haustible force of character This man was the 
incarnation of the expression : “ There is no such 
thing as failure T He was genuine steele, and 
was invulnerable to rust, which sometimes corrodes 
that metal. 

He looked at Marabel with a calm, fixed look, 
that finally bore down her gaze before it. He 
stood there like a motionless statue, that was 
shabby and ugly, but that possessed a fierce, 
penetrating eye-power. 

Marabel was trembling violently, and at last she 
cried out in a voice of despair: “For heaven’s 
sake do not gaze at me any longer, but say at once 
the worst you have to say.” 

Without changing his eyes. Father Neigler said : 
“I heard, about an hour since, that Johnnie Ren- 
negan fell on the ice and broke his arm. Could 


LOVE. 243 

you run over to see him for a few moments this 
evening?” 

“Oh, yes. Shall I go at once?” with a deep 
sigh of relief. 

“Certainly.” 

“I will run up stairs immediately, get my wrap- 
pings and start.” 

In a moment she was gone, and the priest was 
left alone. He sealed himself in a chair with his 
usual stiff movement, leaned his head forward on 
his hand, and seemed to be in very deep thought. 
He sat in this motionless position for a full half 
hour, then he arose and walked out of the room 
with the air of a man who was fully satisfied with 
the measures he had adopted. 

Marabel ran out of the house with a lighter 
heart, to visit Johnnie Rennegan. As she walked 
briskly along she said to herself: “How glad I am 
to get away from him, and how I do despise him, 
and — and — fear him.” Then her eyes would 
sparkle, and her lips would close firmly, as she 
would recall the many indignities she had suffered 
from the hands of Father Neigler. “If my brother, 
my precious brother, were here,” she murmured, 
“he would resent these insults. But, poor brother, 
I have not heard from him for so long, I fear some- 
thing has befallen him.” And then the tender 
hearted sister forgot her own troubles in musing 
over the probable misfortunes that might have fallen 
to her brother’s lot. 

ghe spent an hour with Johnnie, and did much 


244 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

to soothe the pain of the little fellow. And, mak- 
ing him a promise to come again, she returned 
home with the dread of meeting Father Neigler. 
The priest did not make his appearance, and the 
Madam only stopped her in the hall long enough to 
ask about the sick boy, and to say, on parting: “I 
am really glad that Mr. Leighton is becoming inter- 
ested in you. I hope you will succeed in 
proselyting him.’’ 

The impulsive girl paused in her ascent of the 
stairs, and said proudly : “I could give no man my 
heart’s best love that would become a proselyte for 
my sake.” 

“Oh, of course, it will be a question of princi- 
ple when he changes,” said the Madam, with a 
vexatious little laugh. So they parted for the night, 
leaving Marabel in no very pleasant frame of mind. 

Earnest went home with a lighter heart than he 
had carried in his breast for many a day. His 
whole soul was now full of Marabel Langford, and 
he experienced a delicious sense of possession. 
His ardent fancy carried him beyond the real diffi- 
culties in his way, and his fine poetic nature was 
quickened by this new-risen hope in his life. He 
recalled every word she had said in that brief con- 
versation, which was interrupted by the entrance of 
the priest. The gathering tears in her eyes had 
made a deep impression on this susceptible young 
man, and there was a sweetness he could not 
fathom in the remembrance of the tender allusion 
to her mother’s Bible. “Ah,” he mused as he 


LOVE. 


245 


wended his way homeward, “she loves her Bible, 
loves her Bible I With her rich nature, it is impos- 
sible that she should do that and cling to the Cath- 
olic Church,’’ and there came into his dark eyes a 
wealth of tenderness that would have enriched an}^ 
woman. 

There was an unconscious selfishness in the 
pleasure he experienced over the fact that this 
woman loved her Bible. He felt that the differ- 
ence in their religious faith was the one barrier that 
inte/.ened between the union of their lives. 
Change with him was impossible. Was it not 
equally vain to hope that she would change from 
the faith in which she had been educated? But 
that this very thing would happen in the future was 
the source of his present joy. And yet Earnest 
Leighton was too manly to try to proselyte a 
woman in order to marry her. But the very 
result, which every element of his manhood would 
have recoiled from trying to produce, was that 
which, above all other things, he wished to see 
accomplished. As honest as he was, in meditat- 
ing over the possibility of Marabel’s becoming a 
Protestant, he did not consider for a single instant 
the well-being of her soul, but was wholly absorbed 
in his own prospective happiness. Such is the 
selfishness of our natures. 

Earnest dreamed away the time intervening 
between his visit and the evening of the open 
session. But at last the long looked for Thursday 
came. How impatiently we can await the coming 


246 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

of a given time, and how rapidly that time may 
pass away ! 

In the afternoon of that da}' Marabel came into 
the parlor to put, with her own light fingers, the 
finishing touches on the arrangement of its furni- 
ture. There was a fairy grace in every movement, 
and far down in those limpid blue eyes was the 
silent glory of happiness that struggled up to her 
lips in a soft, sweet smile. She had completed 
her pleasant duty, and was standing in front of the 
fire-place, with her hands clasped before her, gaz- 
ing dreamily at the red-hot coals that were nestling 
in the grate. The door opened with noisless 
movement, and with soundless ’ tread, Father 
Neigler entered, crossed the room, and stood 
leaning with his hand upon the marble mantel- 
piece, before he was observed by Marbel. 

She started violently, though she uttered no cry, 
but there came into her eyes a pained, haunted 
expression, her delicate, tapering hands were 
clenched with a spasmodic movement, and her 
lips became as white and firm as marble. Her 
whole appearance was the personification of a for- 
lorn hope. She had just been gathering the 
flowers to twine a wreath for love, but she would 
scatter them now on love’s grave. 

The priest stood there with his cold, impassioned 
face turned full upon her. The bright sparkling 
eyes of the serpent had no more deadly, charming 
power than those sunken orbs of this priest. 
Marabel struggled under their cruel, penetrating 


LdVE. 


247 

gaze, then with a reckless air she walked resolutely 
toward the door. Her hand was already on the 
knob, when the cold, measured, incisive tones of 
the priest fell on her ear : 

“I wish to talk to you, Marabel Langford. 
Will you please take that seat?” and he pointed to 
a chair that was immediatel}^ in front of him. 

Her whole nature was in rebellion at the charac- 
ter and manner of this request, and she said 
haughtily, with an imperial shake of her head : 
‘‘Ladies, I believe. Father Neigler, have a voice in 
choosing their company.” 

“It would be better if ladies did not act the fool, 
especially when they have brothers on the verge of 
ruin !” This was said in the same calm, immovable 
way, as if everything were happening as he had 
expected. 

A sudden pallor overspread Marabel’s face, as 
she quietly walked across the room, and sank into 
the indicated chair; then there came faltering 
from her pale lips : “My brother ! tell me all about 
my brother !” 

She had not heard from him for several weeks, 
and her sister-heart was growing anxious. For 
days past she had been conjecturing every possible 
evil, and she was now in that frame of mind when 
a hint of trouble would be magnified into the 
positive assurance of a calamity. 

She leaned forward now with her wistful eyes 
full of tears, and said in a low tone: “Has any- 
thing befallen my brother? Oh, please tell me 
about him.” 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


248 

The priest stood there as immovable as a rock, 
with a face that had in it not a single trace of 
sympath}^ His deep eyes had been wandering 
for a moment, but the}^ were again bent with all 
their fascinating power, on the trembling girl 
before him. 

Then he said in his cruel, sneering tone : “It is 
contemptible for one who has received the bless- 
ings and charitable benefits of our Holy Church to 
become treacherous.” 

Marabel felt a cold shudder pass over her, and 
she struggled hard to regain her self-possession. 

“I have known girls,” he continued in the same 
cutting tone, “Catholic girls, who would sacrifice 
their holiest convictions for some pretty faced, milk- 
and-cider Protestant. I have known just such 
girls.” 

Marabel sprang to her feet, drew herself up till 
she looked a very queen, with the wild flame of 
excitement burning in her splendid blue eyes, and 
said in a low, subdued voice, full of passion, full 
of outraged womanhood : “Father Neigler, / am 
not that woman.” 

“Indeed,” with indescribable scorn, “did / s^y 
you were? It seems to me 3"ou are touchy this 
evening, almost suspiciously so, I might add. Of 
course, you are a little bundle of perfection — 
Father Mallory has so written me. Some girls, 
though, annoying girls, are always carrying 
around with them a little Bible, with a pretense to 
devotion and piety. You don’t belong to this 
class — certainly not.'"'' 


LOVE. 


249 


“Oh, my God !” was wrung from the girl’s 
heart. “I have my mother’s Bible, the only gift 
of my dear precious mother,” and she buried her 
face in her hands and wept. 

The priest stood there, silent, immovable, till 
the storm of grief had subsided : then he drew 
nearer to where she sat, and said in a low tone, 
peculiar to him at certain times, a tone in which 
were strangely blended authority and appeal, and 
yet combined with a manner that carried convic- 
tion to the listener’s heart that he was expresing an 
unalterable wish against which it was useless to 
rebel. There was something about him in such 
moments that was half care^^sing, but the claws of 
death were always visible under the soft purring 
touch, and they acted as a fearful warning against 
any meditated resistance. The chill at Marabel’s 
heart grew colder as he spoke. 

He said: “I advise you to listen to what I have to 
say, and to profit by my suggestions. This is 
your wisest course, for you well know that you are 
fully in my power. Young people can not hide the 
fact that they love each other from an observant 
eye. Love is a light in the heart that can not 
be hidden under a bushel. It shows itself in a 
hundred ways, even when the parties are trying to 
conceal it. I am aware that you and Earnest 
Leighton love each other, though no word of love 
has ever been spoken between you. It has been a 
silent surrender of the heart’s best affection. Mr. 
Leighton will never forget you, although at some 


250 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


future day he may marry another woman. But 
you have touched a spring in his heart that will 
always vibrate, and it will always produce memory’s 
sweetest music. He has a strong nature, strong to 
suffer and strong to do. He would die before he 
would yield his principles ; he has the ‘stuff’ in him 
out of which martyrs are made. There is no hope 
of the union of you two unless you forsake the 
Catholic Church, or he is won to recognize the 
church’s high and holy claim upon him. There 
are many reasons why we wish him as a proselyte. 
These reasons grow out of facts in his past history 
that I can not repeat to you. But your interest 
and the church’s interest are identical. The day 
he becomes a Catholic, will witness the symbol of 
love on your finger, which holds in its charmed 
circle the sacred promise of marriage. This is the 
true destiny of woman, and it is the goal of your 
happiness. But this can never be accomplished 
while Earnest Leighton is in Lexington. We must 
have liim in New York, where strong guards may 
be thrown around him, and where influences may 
be brought to bear on him which he can not resist. 
But this can not be accomplished without your 
assistance. You alone can entice him to New 
York. Earnest Leighton is a man that will make 
any honorable sacrifice for the woman he loves. 
He loves you. Induce him to visit the metropolis 
at the intermediate examination, which will occur 
in February; in the mean-time, of course, you 
will return. Once get him there, and Father Mai- 


LOVE. 


251 


lory will answer for the rest. Let me specify 
what I wish you to do : Earnest Leighton accom- 
panies you to-night to the open session of his 
society. Use all your womanly art and womanly 
tact to get him to make advances. Play the little 
game of your mother’s Bible, which you so 
adroitly and unconsciously introduced the other 
night, and with such happy effect upon your sub- 
ject. By a stroke of good fortune, the question 
for discussion this evening is one referring to the 
Confessional. Sympathize with his views a little, 
but retain sufficient doubt to enlist his interest in 
your behalf. Gradually direct your conversation 
to sentimental topics, and finally, force him to a 
confession of his love. You can easily accom- 
plish this if you will. This you know. But to 
the all-important question, say that you are com- 
pelled to return to New York immediately, and if 
he will come to see you in February, he shall have 
iirfi answer. Assign as a reason for this delay that 
you wish to pass from under the cloud of doubts 
concerning the truthfulness of Catholicism, and 
then lead him to believe his visit will be crowned 
by an affirmative answer. The end justifies the 
means you know, besides many girls treat men 
worse than this without any special motive, beyond 
gratifying their love for flirting. But I impera- 
tively demand all of this from your hands to-night 
— I will accept no refusal, nor bear with any 
failure. What say you?” 

When Father Neigler paused, the stillness in the 


252 


r \'INEST I.Ti:iGIITON. 


room wns so prolound tliat one could hear the bea*:- 
ing of Marabel’s heart. As he spoke of Earnest’s 
love for her, a tender light came into her eyes, and 
a rich glow spread over her cheek and brow, but 
before he had finished an ashy paleness covered 
her face, and her bloodless lips were compressed 
in silent agony. She made several efforts to speak 
before she succeeded, and all the while the potent 
eyes of the priest were bent upon her. 

At last, pressing both her hands on her heart, 
she gasped : “I can’t ; oh, I can’t.*’ 

A sardonic smile was on the lips of the priest as 
he said, in his merciless tones: “Very well, your 
answer is all I wished. You will never see Louis 
Langford again.” 

“Spare my brother,” she cried, “for the love of 
heaven, spare my dear brother, and I will do an}^- 
thing — everything that you wish me to do.” And 
the poor girl leaned forward her head, and, rock- 
ing to and fro, moaned out her great, deep agony. 

The priest only said: “I have given you my 
instructions, and you know the penaltv if you fail 
me,” then without another word he walked out of 
the room. 

* * * * * ^ ^ 
Later in the evening Earnest arrived, and Mar- 
abel received him with a tolerably cheerful face, 
but a very sad heart. She was enduring all the 
anguish of indecision. The fearful threat of 
Father Neigler was driving her almost mad. If 
she failed to follow his instructions it was ruin to 


LOVE. 


253 


her brother ; if she complied with them, she was 
fearful that the same disaster would befall Earnest. 
Could she choose between these two men, who 
were equally noble, if not equally dear? 

Earnest had come in the best of spirits, with his 
whole nature aglow with the delicious enthusiasm 
of hope. The demeanor of Marabel had thrown a 
chill over him, which was the more unpleasant 
because he attributed her actions to the dislike she 
entertained for the position he held in the dis- 
cussion of that evening. Their conversation, then, 
was very common-place during their walk to the 
society hall. There were two young people, walk- 
ing along side by side, each wholly absorbed in 
thought of the other, and yet they were talking of 
the dryest and most uninteresting details of ordin- 
ary experiences. Such things as this often happen 
in life, where the heavy burden remains unlifted, 
because the right word remains unspoken. 

It was not long after they reached the hall before 
the session was opened, and in a very short time 
the question for the debate was read. We have 
only to do briefly with Earnest’s part in the discus- 
sion. When he first appeared on the floor he was 
very much embarrassed, but by a manly struggle 
he soon regained his self-possession. His interest 
in his theme gradually led him to forget the pres- 
ence of Marabel. Earnest Leighton was an accom- 
plished speaker, and when under the inspiration of 
his deepest convictions, he often rose to the height 
of impassioned eloquence. On this night he sur- 


254 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


passed himself. He arraigned the Confessional 
before the tribunal of history, and placed upon it 
the scathing verdict of self-condemnation. He 
poured the light of his research into the dark corn- 
ers where were hidden the loatiisome iniquities 
accomplished under the veil of secrecy. He 
brought it up before the judgment-seat of God’s 
word, and arraigned every earthly priest for treason 
in the presence of the High Priest of Heaven. 
The life of the human soul depended upon no 
human intercession. No priest has the right to 
stand between man’s sin-sick heart and the great 
Physician of this spiritual malady. 

When Earnest ceased to speak, the silence was 
broken b}^ the deep drawn sigh that marks the cul- 
mination of the profound interest of an audience. 
His speech had been successful, and there was a 
glow of gratitude in his heart, not unmingled with 
anxiety as to how Marabel Langford might view 
his effort. 

Durin<4- their walk home there were not manv 
words spoken, but they were words full of rich, 
tender meaning — lowly, softly spoken, registering 
in each heart a feelimx that had in it all the infini- 
tilde of love. It would be better if we could leave 
them here in the full enjoyment of this moment 
never to be forgotten. Oh, the imp.issionate ten- 
derness of human souls in the first consciousness of 
requited love. 

Soon they were seated on a divan in the cozy 
little parlor, close to a cheerful winter fire. There 


LOVE. 


2SS 

was a silence that had something sacred in it, which 
was at last broken by Marabel, in her low, musical 
voice : 

“Mr. Leighton, I want to thank you for your 
speech. I believe every word of it. I came to the 
faith I hold ^ now by the weary steps of painful 
doubting.” 

Earnest met her wistful look with his frank, open 
smile, as he replied: “You have changed your 
faith, then, as regards the Confessional?” 

“Yes, and I know not how much beyond it.” 

Ilis heart yearned to say that he hoped she would 
renounce every claim on the Catholic Church, but 
this was the voice of selfishness, and Earnest 
Leighton was manly. 

lie only said, sadly said : “I sympathize with 
you so deeply in this, your mental struggle.” 

She involuntarily reached out her hand to him, 
as she rejoined : “How grateful I am for your 
S 3 nnpathy ; it will give me strength.” 

Their eyes met in one revealing gaze, and their 
hands clasped in one electric touch. 

The surge of feeling in the heart of Earnest mas- 
tered him, and, bowing his head over her hands, 
he said: “I love you, fondly love you; love you 
better than my life.” 

The waves of her hair brushed his brow as she 
breathed her pained reply : “Oh, Earnest, Earnest, 
I am a Catholic.” 

“Not that way, not that way,” he murmured, 
“it is I who am a Protestant.” 


2s6 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


For a moment she ran her white, tapering- 
fingers through his dark hair, and gazed at him 
with something like adoration in her eyes. Then 
she said : 

“Earnest, do you love me well enough to grant 
me a very great favor?” 

He lifted up his face, so pale now, as he replied : 
“Your woman’s heart can answer that question. 
What is your request?” 

“I have many things to say to you, which I can 
not say now. I am compelled to return home early 
next week, and can not see you again before I 
start. In a little over a month your intermediate 
examination will be held, and at that time I plead 
for a visit from you. Will you not come to New 
York to see meV'" 

“You may expect to see me in your city before 
February closes,” said Earnest, with a bright face. 

A few moments later the good-night was spoken, 
and Earnest was gone. When left alone, there 
came into Marabel’s face an expression of keen 
anguish, as she paced the floor with clasped hands. 
There escaped from her set lips the moan : “Oh, 
the agony, the agony of this suspense ! Will they 
dare to harm my precious lover?” 


CHAPTER XXL 


THE PRISONER. 

On a prominent street in New York, centrally 
located, was a fine Cathedral. It was the resort of 
the fashionable members of the Catholic Church, 
and its style of architecture and elegant finish were 
sufficient to charm the most fastidious taste. At 
all regular services, the dark aisles of the church 
were thronged with worshipers. 

One da}' about the middle of January a man 
might have been seen walking along the street 
with a basket on his. arm. He went to a small door 
at the rear of the church, took a key from his 
pocket, placed it in the lock, looked carefully 
around, then turned the bolt and quickly entered. 
He locked the door after him. 

He found himself in a short, dimly lighted hall, 
along which he made his way. It was guarded at 
the further end by a heavy oak door through which 
he passed. Then he lighted a small lantern and 
descended a long flight of steps, which were termi- 
nated bv a ponderous iron door. This door 
opened into a small room that was made at the 
foundation of one of the many towers that orna- 
mented this splendid building. It was some ten 

257 


258 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

feet in diameter, and all the light it had came from 
above. 

The floor of this room was heavy rock, in the 
center of which was a strong trap-door made of 
iron. In the center of the trap there was a small 
opening, through which one could easily slip his 
hand. The door was heavily barred and locked. 
It opened into a prison cell some eight feet deep. 

The man set his basket down, knelt on the iron, 
and peered through the hole into the cell beneath. 
It required some time for his eyes to become 
accustomed to the darkness ; then he saw an object 
sitting on one side of the cell, with its head 
drooped between its knees. It was the very pic- 
ture of suffering and wretchedness. 

The man gave a shrill whistle, and the object 
suddenly started and painfully raised to its feet. 

It was one created in the image of God, but 
how marred and broken was the image ! 

“How are you, my heretic?” from the man 
above. The other lifted his head and gazed 
upwards. The face belonged to a young man, but it 
was growing rapidly old in this place. You would 
hardly have called it pale, it was the color of 
ashes. It was haggard and pain-stricken, and yet 
it had something in it — an under-current of fire- — 
that indicated an unconquerable spirit had its abode 
in that tortured body. 

“Well, how are you making it, old fellow?” 

The face actually smiled. 

“As well as one could expect, considering my 
hotel accommodations.” 


THE PRISONER. 


259 


“Don’t feel a little sick of your bargain?” 

“No, because I made up my mind to face the 
worst, and I suppose I am facing it. By this I do 
not mean that I am especially charmed with my 
quarters.” 

“Humph ! how much better to be pious ! Then 
you could have a good fat position, plenty of wine 
to drink, not much work, but an easy time 
general^.” 

The man below was shading his eyes and trying 
in the dim light to get a glimpse of the face above. 
Presently : 

“Is it John ?” 

“John at your service, sir.” 

“I thank the Lord for that. Have you anything 
to eat in that basket?” 

“Yes.” 

“Pass it down.” 

“A heretic should not be in such a hurry.” 

“But a heretic is awful hungry.” 

“Well, here it goes.” 

The basket was let down and the half famished 
man began eating greedily. John watched him in 
silence for awhile, then said : 

“A little hungry, I should think.” 

A little P' and the man laughed bitterly, but he 
lost no time in eating. 

^‘By the way, John,” he said, when he had 
partly satisfied the cravings of his appetite, “what 
has become of the scalawag that has been bringing 
my dinner?” 


26 o 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“I switched him off the track with a cunning 
dose of medicine.” 

“Why?” 

“I wanted to see how a renegade priest looks 
when he is jugged.” 

“Kind of you. How do you think he looks?” 

“He has degenerated physically as well as 
morally. If he continues a little while longer, he 
will be — dead.” 

“You are an encouraging wretch,” said the 
man below as he continued to eat. 

John was silent for a little while, when he asked 
abruptly : “Would you like to escape?” 

He dropped the provisions he held in his hand, 
and sprang up with astonishing energy in one so 
weak. He uttered a single word, but he uttered it 
with impassionate force. 

“Yes.” 

“You are in earnest about it, are you not, old 
fellow? Now, suppose I should help you out, 
would you go away somewhere and be a good 
priest?” 

“No,” fiercely and defiantly. 

“Humph ! haven’t been starved long enough.” 

The man sat down again and began eating 
silently. 

“Sulky, I suppose,” said John. 

“No, only hungry. You bring me better din- 
ners than the dog who preceded you. Keep him 
sick won’t you?” 

“ No, it hurts my conscience. I have a very 


THE PRISONER. 


261 


tender conscience. Only think of it — I stole more 
than half the provision in that basket. Father 
Mallory portioned out your allowance, and I man- 
aged on the sly to chug in quite a morsel besides. 
I shall have to do penance for all this. My 
conscience torments me terribly.” 

“ I am sorry that your conscience is so tender. 
But when are you going to try to get me out of 
here?” 

“ That is a dangerous business.” 

“ Certainly ; but it is death to stay here.” 

“ Not to me.” 

The man in the cell whistled. 

“ You are a plucky chap,” from John. 

“It is better never to say die ; but if one must 
die, he should meet death bravely.” 

While they were talking, John closely examined 
the fastenings of the trap-door. 

“ I say, they sealed this jug pretty tight, old 
boy.” 

“Can’t you file through?” 

“Don’t know. Pass up your basket if you are 
through eating.” 

John took the basket and left without another 
word, locking the doors after him. Louis Lang- 
ford doubled a comfort he had, and sat down on it. 
He was very much emaciated, and his imprison- 
ment was surely and fatally telling on him. The 
long dark nights, beginning so early in the evening 
and ending so late in the morning, were shattering 
his nervous system and undermining his will- 
power. 


262 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


He saw this, and it made him tremble for the 
future. He was not afraid of death, could face it 
anywhere, biit to lose his strength by privation, his 
will, his courage, then to die a miserable, cring- 
ing being, was more than he could bear. 

“I’ll not give up,” he said “I’ll not become 
melancholy. I’ll brave everything.” 

He began walking around his narrow cell, and 
throwing his arms about, to call into action every 
muscle of his body. But he was lighting against 
cold, darkness, bad air, dampness, and unutterable 
loneliness and dreariness of heart. It w^as a cruel 
and unequal contest. 

One day soon after John’s visit. Father Mallory 
came to see him. The priest peered down at him 
for a long while, with his sinister little eyes, before 
he said anything. 

“Art thou happy, my, son?” he said with mock 
solemnity. 

“Happier than you are, my persecutor,” he said 
indignantly. 

The priest gazed on him with savage delight as 
he marked the ravages of privation and suffering. 

“Do you feel penitent for your many sins?” 

“I trust I am penitent for all my sins.” 

“Then you are sorry that you tried to steal a nun 
out of the convent?” 

“I am not sorry that I tried to release Sister 
Angelica who is no nun, and whom I did not try to 
steal.” 

“By jove, there is not much penitence about you. 


THE PRISONER. 


263 

if I am any judge. I’ll decrease your rations until 
you are willing to come down on your knees to me, 
you vile thing, who dares call himself a priest.” 

“I do not wish to be called a priest. I never 
wanted to be one, but you morall}^ compelled me 
to adopt the profession. You had my education in 
your hands, why did you not make me different?" 

“Because of the latent meanness in you. I did 
my best. But enough of this ; I came here to talk 
to you on business. I do not want to see you 
perish in this hole. I shall be charitable. I offer 
you your freedom on certain conditions,” 

“Name your conditions.” 

“You know that you have been very trouble- 
some to me here. We have no work in New York, 
adapted to your peculiar ability, but in other 
places we may find something to keep you busy. 
We have a special mission in Mexico for which 
we need a few priests. Renounce all efforts to 
disturb us here, consent to go there, pledging your- 
self to remain five years, and we will at once 
place you in safe hands and ship you. What do 
you say?” 

“Will you release Sister Angelica from the con- 
vent ?” 

“Certainly not. What the thunder has that to do 
with your accepting my proposition?” 

“Very much — indeed everything. I shall never 
consent to leave New York for any time until she 
is released from her present imprisonment.” 

Mallory reached far down into the cell and shook 
his fist at him, as he cried : 


264 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

“Do you defy me, you wretch? I’ll make 
every bone in your body ache for that. I curse 
you with every curse of the church. May the 
damnation of the prince of devils be upon you in 
fires everlasting. Villain, wretch, renegade ! You 
shall have a crust of bread only to stay your appe- 
tite, a drop of water to quench your thirst, until 
you get down on your knees and beg me for 
mercy. 

The angry man spit at him, then sprang to his 
feet, turned on his heel and went away, swearing 
swift and terrible punishment on his defenceless 
prisoner. The brave heart of Louis Langford 
sank at these fearful threats. He knew that Mal- 
lory would hesitate at no cruelty that would likely 
accomplish his ends. He was surely approaching 
the worst of his many bitter experiences. 

His only hope was in John, and he waited in 
painful anxiety for his coming. The evening 
came, but another brought him his food. It was 
the one who had always served him, except in the 
single instance when John had taken his place. 
This man had never spoken to him a single kind 
word. He was a lit tool for the service of Father 
Mallory. 

The priest had been true to his threat, for the sup- 
ply of both bread and water was fearfully meager. 
Louis ate this scanty meal with painful misgivings. 
He knew too well that his strength would not bear 
greater privations. 

But still he hoped for some change, hoped that 


THE PRISONER. 


^265 

John would return and help him to escape. But 
days went by and still the same silent and unsympa- 
thetic face peered down on him from above, and 
gave him the wretched allowance of bread and 
water. He could bear this silence no longer, 
so he spoke to him one day, but no response came. 
He tried to coax a word from him, but his effort 
was unavailing. The man went away, leaving 
a fellow-being wild to hear a human voice. 

He grew weak and still weaker. Every bone in 
his body ached with mortal pain. One day he 
was seized with crampings in the stomach, followed 
by burning sensations. He was in torture. His 
nights became sleepless, and when he would fall 
into a dose frightful visions would sweep before 
his mind, and these were so real and vivid that 
they would even possess his wakeful moments. A 
wild and terrible light was creeping into his eyes, 
and an awful frenzy was seizing his brain. There 
were moments when he was conscious of his con- 
dition, and at such times he would fight against 
madness with his admirable courage. 

One day Mallory came again — to taunt him. 

“Will you go to Mexico now, and leave your 
Angelica?” he asked, when he had stared at him 
awhile. He reached his hand through the hole 
and pointed his finger scornfully at the woe-begone 
image. 

Louis gnashed his teeth in helpless rage as he 
tramped around his narrow cell. He paused a 
moment and looked up at Mallory, his eyes burn- 


266 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


ing like two coals of fire. A laugh of derision 
came to his ears and he saw the hateful finger 
pointing at him. All of a sudden he made a fran- 
tic leap, and grasped Mallory’s wrist in the iron 
grip of frenzy. In another second, he had 
drawn himself up and planted his sharp teeth in the 
priest’s arm. Mallory roared with fright and pain, 
and by an almost superhuman effort shook himself 
free from the enraged man. 

Louis dropped to the bottom of the cell with a 
wild laugh, while the priest raved at him, but was 
careful to keep at a safe distance from the opening. 
He swore that his prisoner should not have 
another mouthful of food nor a drop of water. He 
tied his handkerchief around his bleeding arm, and 
with muttered oaths left the cell. 

The excitement raised Louis’ spirits, and he suf- 
fered less during the night than usual. But even- 
ing brought him no supper, and when dawn came, 
fierce hunger came with it, but no food to satisfy 
these cravings of his appetite. The crampings 
and burnings returned with double force. Through 
the long hours of that day, he lay in his cell drawn 
up in a knot. Toward evening a fever began to 
creep through his veins. The internal pains ceased 
somewhat, but his flesh was hot, his veins swollen, 
and his head nearly bursting. A fierce thirst, 
also seized him, and his mouth and tongue were 
dry and parched. 

It was late in the night that he was lying fully 
conscious, trying to hope that help would come. 


THE PRISONER. 


267 


If it did not come to-night, he felt that it would 
come too late. In that event he wanted to gain 
his consent to die with all his plans unaccomplished. 

He heard a movement above him, and opening 
his eyes, saw a faint light. Then he heard a voice 
calling his name. He started on his elbow, and 
cried feebly : 

“Who are you?” 

“John, ’ came from above. 

“I am dying, John, and for heaven’s sake do not 
desert me now.” 

“Be calm. I do not think you are dying, and I 
shall not desert you. But we must use caution or 
we may be discovered ; then I shall be in as bad a 
box as you are.” While he spoke he arranged a 
small lantern so as to throw the light full on the 
trap-door. 

“Be patient now till I .get this everlasting door 
open.” 

He began working vigorously with a large file on 
the staple that held the main bar. It was no light 
job, and full two hours were gone before his task 
was accomplished. He hurriedly slipped the 
bolt and threw open the door. 

“Let me have your hands and I will draw you 
out,” he said. 

Louis made an effort to comply with this request, 
but the exertion and excitement together were too 
much for him and he fainted. John looked at him 
for several minutes and then hurriedy left the house. 
He soon returned with a small bucket of water and 


2C8 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


some bread. Louis had regained consciousness 
and he seized the bucket and drank as if he were 
perishing from thirst. John gave him some bread 
which he devoured ravenously. 

“We will try it again,” said John. 

With the greatest difficulty, Louis was finally 
raised out of his cell. After eating and drinking 
he felt stronger, and yet he could walk only with 
the assistance of his friend. They moved slowly 
step by step, and after a weary time they reached the 
outer door. 

“I must rest a moment,” said Louis. “But 
thank God that I once more breathe the pure air of 
heaven.” 

“Eat this bread while you rest, and I will recon- 
noiter,” said John. 

He looked up and down the street with great 
care, and satisfied himself that no one was near. 
The night was dark and it was difficult to see an 
object at any distance. 

He came back to Louis and said : “If we can 
only escape a stray watch, I think we are safe. 
Can you go now?” 

“Yes.” 

They moved on slowly and painfully. Louis 
could scarcely drag one foot after the other. Star- 
vation and fever had paral^-zed his strong frame, 
and he was as weak as a child. But he had 
naturally a splendid constitution to combat the 
ravages of disease. Louis got too weak to walk 
and then John carried him, and when he was too 


THE PRISONER. 


269 


tired to bear his burden further, the poor fellow 
would creep along the best he could. Thus wore 
away the night in a bitter struggle to gain a place 
of shelter. 

At last, in the suburbs of the city, they reached 
a small house. Day was already breaking. John 
knocked at the door, and in response came : 

“Who is there?” 

John answered by a low whistle, and the door 
swung open. 

“Here is our man,” said John ;“give him a bed 
quick.” 

The man was rough and bearded, but he looked 
at Louis compassionately as he led the way to a 
garret room. 

In this garret was a comfortable bed and Louis 
stretched himself on it with a sigh of relief. To 
his worn body it was luxurious. 

John said : “I must get back, it is growing late. 
Take good care of Langford, and I’ll warn you if 
danger threatens. Good-bye,” and he hurried 
away, but not so fast that he did not hear a “God 
bless you,” from Louis. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


D I S APPOINTMENT. 

When Earnest reached his room he found 
Gerould still sitting up awaiting his return. As he 
entered the door he was greeted with : “Halloo, 
old boy, your are rather late to-night.” 

This was said with an attempt at his old gay 
manner, but in reality his smile was only a ghost of 
its former self, and his voice had in it a tremor of 
pain. 

The change in his room-mate had a startling 
effect on Earnest. He was very pale and had a 
haggered look. His effort at gayety was the 
veriest sham, but still it had that in it which touched 
the deepest sympathy of Earnest’s heart. 

He closed the door, came up to him, and laying 
his hand on his shoulder, said: “Tell me, 
Gerould, old friend, tell me what has gone wrong.” 

“Gone wrong,” cried Gerould, “gone wrong, 
indeed. Ha, ha, that is rich. Why, Fm right 
side up with care, — see,” and he threw himself 
back in his chair, and laughed violently, but there 
was a vibration in his laugh, which was not of 
pleasure. But he suddenly sprang to his feet and 
said: “We had a splendid open session — a mag- 
nificent success. I tell you, old fellow, you car- 


270 


disappointment. 


27 1 

riedoffthe palm, you covered yourself with glory — 
I am proud of you. I shall say to the future genera- 
tion of Wingroves : ‘Earnest Leighton ; why to 
be sure I knew him. Bless m3' soul ! I not onh^ 
knew him, but I roomed with him. He was m}^ 
bosom friend ; yes sir, I am proud of him.” 

During this little speech Gerould did not look at 
Earnest, but seemed to be addressing the boot- 
jack that was hanging up in one corner of the 
room. He was just on the eve of starting off 
again, when Earnest said : “Be quiet for a little 
while, I have something to tell you.” 

“With unbounded pleasure,” is rejoined. 
“Allow me to congratulate you on the unusual cir_ 
cumstance of your having something to sa}q” and 
Gerould re-seated himself, leaning back in his chair, 
placing his feet on the table. 

Earnest moved his chair very near and said 
abruptly: “Miss Langford returns to New York 
in a few days.” 

“The dickens,” exclaimed Gerould, with a sudden 
start that came near overturning the table. 

“Yes, she is going.” 

There was a brief silence, then Gerould said, in 
a low, changed tone : “Why?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Both of these men felt that they should be confi- 
dential with each other, yet it was difficult to break 
a silence that had existed so long between them. 

“When ?” said Gerould, shading his face w’ith his 
hand and tightly compressing his lips. 


272 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“Next week early.” 

Gerould rose and walked slowly across the 
room with his hands behind him and his head 
bowed ; he paused at the window and placing his 
foot on the sill, silently gazed out at the night. 

“Gerould,” said Earnest. 

He slowly came back and took his seat with a 
dejected air, and only answered: “Well, old 
fellow.” 

The bright, handsome face was clouded now, 
and bore the marks of a painful struggle. 

Earnest hesitated, for he felt at a loss for words 
to express himself, but at last he managed to say : 

“Gerould, we are both in trouble; shall we 
mutually confide in each other?” 

“You are about right, old boy, I need a tonic of 
some kind, and possibly an honest confession 
would answer every purpose.” 

Earnest bowed his head upon the table and 
remained for a long while in thought, then raising 
it he said : 

“My best friend, I can not say what I wish to. 
I do not understand myself. I am confused and 
lost, utterly bewildered. I love Marabel Langford 
with a desperate, hopeless love. I have been so 
imprudent as to tell her of my attachment.’’ 
Then, after reflecting a moment he continued : “Is 
a man to blame for such an imprudence? Is it in 
the possibilities of human nature to gaze into the 
eyes of one to whom you are devoted, and never 
speak an unguarded word r The feeling gets pos- 


DISAPPOINTMENT . 


273 

session of a man, and controls him. It trembles 
in every fibre of his being, it struggles for mastery, 
it always conquers. My resolutions were good, 
but they failed me. My judgment was correct, 
but my will proved too weak. This has been a 
delightful day to me, but it is the peace and quiet 
that precedes the storm. I am miserable to-night. 
Yes, I told her that I loved her, and the moment 
was a happy one. But since I come to reflect, she 
gave me no positive assurance of her love in 
return. But she placed me under the bond of a 
promise — a promise to visit her in New York 
during the month of February. I thought my 
fetters were silken then, but a short hour has told 
me that they are cruel steel. I do not want to go 
to the metropolis now. I have interests there to 
look after, but not yet.” 

There was another pause, then Earnest rose and 
stood close to his friend ; his face was pale to his 
very lips, and a deep, pained look was in his large 
dark eyes, as he said : 

“Gerould, one short hour ago I believed 
Marabel Langford to be an angel, and now I think 
her a willing tool to a fiendish priest.” 

“?vly old chum,” said Gerould, in an unusually 
quiet tone for him, “you are very much excited ; 
Miss Langford is a true woman, or there is not one 
on the face of the earth.” 

“I fear there are none, then,” said Earnest 
bitterly. 

“Do not talk that way, old fellow, you are no 
misanthrope.” 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


274 

“No, I am not, but I fear all the goodness of the 
world is not centred in my idol.” 

“There are few better women. Earnest Leighton, 
and you misjudge her,” said Gerould with remark- 
able positiveness. 

“Can you fathom the motive of this sudden visit 
to New York, to be followed so soon by your 
humble servant?” 

“No I can not, but 1 am sure the motive is good, 
for the woman is true.” 

“What a bundle of credulity my wise friend has 
come to be,” said Earnest. 

Gerould did not reply to this remark, but said, 
in a low tone : 

“Earnest, sincerely, do you think Miss Lang- 
ford would favor your suit or not?” 

“When I left her house I thought she would, but 
my impression now is that she cares nothing about 
me. I honestly believe she is a stool-pigeon to 
beguile me to New York.” 

“Then you will not go?” 

“Yes, I will. I shall never break a promise I 
have made in good faith. But I shall try to be as 
wise as a serpent, if not as harmless as a dove.” 
He continued in a tone that had in it more of sad- 
ness than bitterness, as he laid his hand on his 
friend’s shoulder: “Gerould, I know that you 
admire Miss Langford ; consider me out of the 
field, and do your best to win her. I can never, 
and will never marry a Catholic, though I idolized 
her. And yet this woman is continually making 


DISAPPOINTxMENT. 


275 


me act the fool. But women are always doing that 
with men. I heartily wish you would marry her, 
for I shall never entirely be myself until she is 
absolutely beyond my reach. But,” he added 
with that quizzical smile on his lips, “I am most 
certainly entangled. I must find some honorable 
way of escape from the leashes she has thrown 
around me. If I only had back my promise to go 
to New York, and a few other immature utter- 
ances, I should be comparatively happy.” 

“I wish I were in your place, my heart-stricken 
boy,” said Gerould, with a slight shrug of his 
shoulders. 

Here the conversation dropped for the night and 
they both retired to woo, in vain, the tranquillity of 
slumber. 

^ * * * 

It was on the next evening that Gerould sought 
an interview with Miss Langford. The interview 
was granted. The quiet of night had scarcely 
stolen over the city before they met. In his 
impatience Gerould had called early. 

He drew his chair near hers, and leaning his 
head on his hand, said in an uncertain voice : 
“You are going away?” 

“Yes.” 

“Will you return soon?” 

“No ; possibly never.” 

An embarrassing pause, in which the woman’s 
color is high, and the man is pale. 

Then, suddenly: “Do you know what it is to 
love with all of one’s strength?” 


276 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“Yes,” came from her lips in scarcely an audible 
whisper, and her color deepened. 

“What is life worth when such a love becomes 
dead to one?” he asked with a wistful gaze that 
seemed to be staring into a hopeless future. 

“Life is always worth much if it is bravely 
lived,” she said, in a half musing way, as if she 
were walking again along the pathway of her own 
experiences. “Love is very much, but God is more. 
The loss of love and the separations of life are 
inevitable, but the presence of God may over- 
shadow every soul and be an ever-present help.” 

“I suppose I have never been a very religious 
man, for you are the only being I have ever wor- 
shiped ; tell me frankly, may I still adore my 
idol?” 

She leaned forward in her womanly tenderness, 
and said: “I am so sorry, Mr. Wingrove, that 
you told me this. I admire you very, very much, 
but I can never love you as the woman should love 
the man to whom she entrusts her happiness.” 

“Then you love another,” he said in a broken 
tone. 

She was silent. 

But he persisted: “If you love no other there 
may yet be hope for me.” 

“There is no hope,” she rejoined sadly. 

“I am sure, tiien, your heart is not free.” 

“We all have our heart troubles, Mr. Wingrove, 
and sometimes they are very, very bitter ; I have 
not been more fortunate than you,’* And her 


DISAPPOINTMENT . 


277 


proud, beautiful head lost its stately poise as the 
tear-drops silently stole between her white fingers. 

“Do not weep, Miss Langford, T am unworthy 
of your regard, unworthy of the tears you are 
shedding now. Forget me, forget the love I have 
for you. I am going away to battle with my love, 
after awhile, perchance to conquer — through the 
help of your God. I want you always to remember 
me as a friend. I shall alwa3^s cherish your 
memory. You shall be an inspiration to my life — 
a blessed inspiration. And if my wishes were 
realities, how happy you would be ! May God 
bless you. Good-bye.” 

He seized her hand and passionately kissed it ; 
then he was gone, and she was left alone. 


CHAPTER XXIIl. 

CONSULTATION. 

It was the last day of Januaiy, 1845. The clouds 
hung low, and the rain was constantly falling, but 
it froze as fast as it fell. It was a cheerless day, 
full of sleet, full of sadness. There were not many 
people abroad in the streets of New York. Those 
that were forced to brave the storm were wrapped 
and muffled, and they moved along at a dreary pace. 

Father Mallory was out in the storm, but he 
seemed indifferent to both the dampness and chill. 
He was in high glee, as he would occasionally rub 
his hands together and chuckle to himself. He 
finally reached the residence of Robert Manning, 
and without a moment’s hesitation he ascended the 
steps and rang the bell. He was immediately 
admitted by a servant, who relieved him of his wet 
wrappings, and at once conducted him into the 
presence of the master of the house. 

The last thirteen years had left their trace in 
furrow and cord on the brow of Father Manninir. 
It was the same uncommunicative face, but it had, in 
addition, the expression of a silent chapter of suf- 
fering. There was something about this man that 
would win your sympathies, regardless of the char- 
acter of his actions. You felt that he was driven 
278 


Consultation. 


279 

to tnariy things by the force of circumstances, and 
the protest of his conscience was his unuttered 
apology. 

A visible shudder passed over him as Mallory 
entered the room. The priest observed it and was 
delighted. 

Manning arose, and pointed his visitor to a seat 
on the opposite side of the table, as he briefly 
remarked : “A gloomy day.’’ 

Wretched,” said Mallory, “but business is fair; 
I feel much more cheerful than the weather looks. 
Everything working nicely — Louis Langford 
jugged ; Marabel under my thumb ; Angelica pros- 
trated and harmless ; Earnest Leighton en-route to 
enjoy my tender embrace — ha, ha, the weitther is 
nothing.” The hideous gleam of triumph made 
this man’s ugly countenance more revolting. 

The keen eyes of Mallory were on the face of 
Robert Manning, but the latter was silent, though 
his nether lip slightly trembled. 

“You see,” continued Mallory, “if I once get 
possession of that young heretic I will turn his whole 
wealth into the coffers of the church. I see no 
possible chance of failure now. In ten days he 
will be here, and I shall welcome him with joy. 

Robert Manning raised his eyes, and bent their 
cold, steel look on his visitor as he said ; “I gave 
you a caution which I shall now express in the 
language of warning. Earnest Leighton is not to 
be harmed in life or person. Your machinations 
must fail if they involve severe, physical suffering. 


28 o 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


If you can accomplish your purposes by adroit 
mean‘s, which ar^* comparatively harmless, I havj 
no objections. The property should be in posses- 
sion of the church, but the purchase price must 
not be blood. I fear your actions have had a seri- 
ous effect on the health of Sister Angelica. I must 
interdict everything that is likely to excite unfavor- 
able symptoms in her case. Beyond this I am 
willing to leave the details of the whole affair to 
your judgment, for you are eminently qualified to 
fill this peculiar field of diplomac}^.” 

The thin lips of Father Manning curled with 
something akin to a sneer as he uttered the last 
sentence. 

Mallory’s eyes flashed as he replied in his short, 
abrupt way: ‘^My life is consecrated to the 
church. I am her devoted lover. I know nothing 
but to work for her interest. She needs money in 
New York. Money is within her grasp. A bold 
stroke will secure more than a million. Half work 
is failure and ruin. I will do nothing that I can 
not do safely. 1 will not undertake this business 
with my hands tied. I have brought it so far suc- 
cessfully, but I will not move another peg with 
your restrictions hanging over me.” 

Mallory began walking the floor, an image of low 
wrath and vulgar cunning. The chiseled face of 
Robert Manning betrayed no emotion. He bowed 
his head on his thin, white hand, and thought for 
a moment. 

Then he said : “How much latitude do you 
wish?” 


CONSULTATION. 


281 


“Unbounded !” 

“That you shall never have.” 

Then after a brief silence added: “If Father 
Mallory has no further business with me, other 
duties will claim my attention.” 

Mallory was surprised by the firmness of his 
host. He had clearly overstated the importance of 
his services in the eye of his superior. In his 
indignation he blurted forth : “The responsibility 
of failure must rest on your head.” 

“Beit so,” was replied in the same calm tone. 

Mallory re-seated himself as soon as he could 
control his wrath. His fingers were working nerv- 
ously, and there was a hateful gleam in his little 
round eyes. But when he finally spoke, it was 
with entire command of his feelings, so far as out- 
ward appearances were concerned. Indeed there 
was a pleading in his voice, which indicated a 
willingness to conciliate. 

He said: “I have no desire seriously to injure 
Earnest Leighton. It may be necessary to send 
him to Europe against his will, but I shall use no 
harsh treatment. You very well know that the 
success of our enterprise depends on keeping this 
same Earnest from making his appearance in New 
York a free man. We must control him — keep him 
from sight. My policy is this : Capture Earnest as 
soon as he sets foot in the city, ship him at once to 
Rome and keep him there as long as is necessary 
to our purposes. Avery small portion of his rental 
will defray all expenses, and keep him like a 


282 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


prince after he reaches the Eternal City. Very 
little violence is necessary to carr}^ out this plan. 
And after we are rid of the brother we want all the 
property to pass legally into the hands of the 
remaining heir ; the seal of death is already 
stamped on her countenance, and I will be respon- 
sible for the sort of will she makes. The only 
suffering your nephew will have to endure is the 
loss of liberty. Now, will Father Manning give 
his sanction to these measures?” 

“Suppose you should fail in the capture?” 

Then no one would be wiser for the plot. But 
I shall not fail. I never fail,” and a malicious 
grin was on the lips of Mallory. 

“Ah, I forgot that you were not sufficiently 
human to be chargeable with so natural a 
weakness.” 

Mallory brought his fist down on the table with 
considerable violence, as he replied, impul- 
sively : “You know I have always succeeded. It 
is because I work day and night for success. I 
never sleep, I never tire, while there is a chance 
for defeat. I will be victorious now, if you will 
give your sanction to my polic}^” 

Father Manning walked to the window and 
gazed out at the cheerless clouds as they poured 
their rain-drops in dreary music against the panes. 
Images of other days were Cuming up before his 
mind and softening his heart. The melancholy 
shadows of many bitter experiences were resting 
on his soul, and he was trying to look out beyond 


CONSULTATION. 283 

them to where the sun-light bathed the mountain 
tops with its gleams of hope. 

With bowed head he came to the mantel-piece 
and, leaning upon it, sought comfort from the 
bright fire that was burning upon the hearth-stone. 
The red coals assumed a thousand fantastic shapes 
under the power of his imagination. There were 
pictures from realities of life, gleaming like burn- 
ished gold before his vision. There were monu- 
ments all along his past existence fashioned by the 
genuis of his fancy. He recalled his mother, with 
her every word of endearment and her heavenly 
smile. All that was good in his soul swelled up 
for utterance, under the pressure of his fond recol- 
lection. But there came before him in awful pro- 
cession all the teachings of his father. He could 
behold himself again, as he stood in the presence 
of that stern parent and swore eternal fealty to the 
Church of Rome — swore that no human affection 
should stand between him and the interest of her, 
his holy mother. i 

He suddenly turned to Father Mallory and said, 
without a change in the expression of his face : “I 
leave the whole matter with you, only do no 
unnecessary violence.” The eye, the lip, the 
whole contour of the face remained unaltered, but 
there was a strain of infinite sadness in his voice. 

Mallory’s face shone with every manifestation of 
low triumph. It actually gleamed with fiendish 
delight as he looked forward to his future success, 
and the reward that would likely follow it. 


284 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

Without a single word of reply, save a con- 
temptible chuckle, he bowed to his host and 
moved toward the door. 

“Hold a moment!” exclaimed Robert Manning 
“When did you last see Sister Angelica?” 

“Yesterday.” 

“How was she?” 

“Some better.” 

“Do you think her dangerously sick?” 

“Possibly.” 

“The case is not hopeless?” 

“There is hope as long as there is life.” 

“That is all,” said Robert Manning, as he 
turned toward the fire. 

Mallory passed out into the storm. 

Robert Manning rang the bell, and when the 
servant appeared ordered his carriage. He stood 
in silence until he heard the wheels grating on the 
pavement in front of the house, then wrapping 
himself in a great coat, went forth. He ordered 
the coachman to drive to the Convent of St. Mary, 
stepped into the carriage, and was whirled away 
in the rain and sleet. The invalid girl was to 
receive a visit from the Catholic bishop. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE INVALID. 

In the Convent of St. Mary was a small room 
comfortably furnished. A bed was drawn out 
from the wall and on it lay a young woman, pale 
and motionless. The long, dark lashes were 
dropped over the eyes and the white hands were 
folded across the breast. It was a fair face that 
disease had worn away. 

The lips began to tremble, and an expression of 
pain swept over her features as she started up with 
a cough. 

A dark dressed nun was sitting by the bedside, 
and she held the frail form while it was torn in the 
paroxysm of coughing. A wild terror was in her 
eye and a fatal red spot was on her lip. At last 
the cruel phlegm was wrenched loose, and she lay 
back again quiet, but whiter than the sheet of her 
bed. 

“I have slept a little,” she whispered. 

“A very little,” the nun replied. 

‘T am so worn and so weary,” she said with a 
sigh, and she clasped her hands as if in silent sup- 
plication. 

The nun made no reply, but sat counting her 
rosary. 


285 


286 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“How late is it?” asked the sick girl. 

“About lo o’clock.” 

“Draw the blinds and let the sun shine in once 
more.” 

The nun opened the blinds, and the sun shone full 
into the room. The rays fell across the bed, and 
she would lay her hands in them to feel their 
warmth. 

“How blessed is the sunshine,” she said. 

“It is the gift of God,” said the nun, “and we 
should all be thankful.” 

“But we can not all enjoy God’s gifts. I am 
dying because I could not have the sunshine that 
He has intended we all should enjoy.” 

“I fear you are ungrateful for the blessings that 
God has given you.” 

She clasped her hands and gazed wistfully 
upwards. In a moment she said: “I am grateful 
to God. He is always kind, but some of his crea- 
tures are cruel — very cruel.” 

“I do not think you are in a good frame of mind 
to be so sick. You should forgive every one,” 
said the nun, piously. 

“I do forgive every one, but I am not grateful 
for that which I know to be cruelty.” She closed 
her eyes, as she sighed: “I am so weary, so 
weary !” 

After the Superior had locked Sister Angelica in 
her cell, she became uneasy about her. She 
fought for more than an hour against this restless 
feeling, but at last she yielded so far as to send a 


THE INVALID. 


287 

nun to the cell. The nun hurried back with 
frightened face, unable to give any satisfactory 
account of Angelica. The Superior hastened to 
the room, only to find the table on which her head 
rested stained with blood, and the poor girl herself 
in a state of unconsciousness. 

She quickly sent for the physician of the con- 
vent, and had Sister Angelica immediately moved 
to a more comfortable apartment. The Superior 
was not free from a troublesome conscience, so she 
suffered keen anxiety before the doctor arrived. 
She reproached herself bitterly for punishing Sis- 
ter Angelica, when she knew all too well how 
feeble was her health. 

The doctor came, and when he had made an 
examination of the invalid, he took the Superior 
aside, and said : 

“I do notunderstand this case. The hemorrhage 
is very distinct, but there seems to be something 
unusual acting as an excitant. Has she recently 
been greatly exposed?” 

The woman told of the attempted escape and of 
the subsequent re-capture. She dwelt with especial 
stress upon the necessary excitement attending 
such an effort. She made no mention of the lone 
cell in which the broken-hearted girl had been 
placed. The rack of torture was well kept from 
sight. From a kind of instinct, she determined to 
shield herself, although she knew there was noth- 
ing to fear from the doctor. He never betrayed 
the secrets of the convent. But her feelings were 


288 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


sufficiently aroused to cause her to put forth her 
best efforts to relieve Sister Angelica. 

The doctor went again to the bedside and felt, for 
a long while, the patient’s pulse. 

“Bad pulse !” he muttered. 

He left some simple remedies and went away, 
promising to return soon. The Superior met him 
in the hall and asked what was the matter with 
Sister Angelica. 

“Consumption,” he said, “superinduced by 
exposure and hardship.” 

“She has not been treated badly, doctor,” she 
said with evident concern. 

“The case speaks for itself,” he replied bruskly, 
and was gone. 

He came again next morning, and indeed, every 
morning found the doctor by the side of his new 
patient. He had taken a strange fancy to this sick 
girl, and seemed determined to exhaust his medical 
skill in trying to cure her. He had given positive 
orders that her mind should be kept as tranquil as 
possible, and, in order to insure this, he wished her 
every whim gratified. 

A few days after the morning on which she 
asked that t^le window should be opened, she called 
the nun to the bed-side, and said : 

“Will you not get the Bible and read to me?” 

“I will read to you from the Prayer Book,” the 
nun said hesitatingly. 

“No, no,” she said with a sick person’s 
impatience, “I want the Bible.” 


THE INVALID. 


289 




“I will speak to the Mother Superior.” 

She sought the Superior and brought her to the 
invalid, saying simply: “She wants the Bible 
read.” 

“I will send for a priest,” said the Superior 
kindly. 

“I do not want a priest,” the invalid replied 
impatiently, “I want to hear the Bible read only. 
I can trust the Bible, but I can not trust your priest. 
Oh, why will you not read it to me!” and she 
tossed her hands about excitedly as she moaned 
out her complaint. 

“Let me read to you from the Psalter or the 
Breviary?” entreated the Superior. 

“I am so sick, I think you might read to me 
from the Bible.” 

At this moment the doctor entered, and as soon 
as he looked at Sister Angelica, he asked abruptly : 
“What has excited her?” 

The Superior beckoned him to the opposite side 
of the room, and said in a low tone : 

“She wants us to read the Bible to her.” 

“Read it then,” said the doctor positively. 

“But I can not, it is contrary to the canons of 
the church.” 

“The canons of the church be hanged ! if you 
excite that poor girl, I can not save her. Pay 
more attention to her body and less to her soul if 
you wish to do either any good.” 

“I can not disobey my church. The Council of 
Toulouse says : ‘We also prohibit the laity to 


feAFlNESf tEIGMTO]^. 


290 

have the books of the Old Testament, or the iSfew^ 
unless, perhaps, some might desire for devotion to 
have the Psalter or the Breviary for the divine 
offices, or the Hours to the blessed Mary. But we 
most strictly forbid them to have the books trans- 
lated into the vulgar tongue.’ I can not depart 
from these instructions, but I am willing to send 
for a priest.*’ 

“A priest will do no good.” 

“I will not yield without consulting one.” 

“Then you will kill the poor girl,” said the doc- 
tor savagely. He administered a quieting potion 
and left the house with a gloomy face. 

That evening Father Mallory called at the con- 
vent, and held a consultation with the Superior. 
He was furious when he learned that Sister 
Angelica had been taken from the cell to another 
apartment in order to make her more comfortable. 

“It is all a sham,” he exclaimed violently, “that 
she may not be punished as her sins demand. I 
should have kept her in the cell. If she wanted to 
be contrary and die, why, let her die. It would 
have been no fault of yours. Once let her kind 
know that they can manage you, and there is no 
end to their tricks, but there is an immediate end 
to all discipline. We punish for the benefit of the 
soul, and to be salutary it must be severe. You 
did wrong in letting this girl escape you so easy.” 

“But she was very sick, dangerously sick,” said 
the Superior, who was sensitive of Mallory’s 
opinion. 


THE INVAEIt). igi 

^‘Pshaw! all put on!- I have watched that 
woman, she seems to be fair and gentle, but she is 
as sturbborn as a mule. You ought to break that 
stubbornness if it kills her. It will have a good 
effect on other unruly characters that may be under 
your charge. I insist on having her put back in 
the cell.” 

“I believe it would kill her. Father Mallory,” 
said the Superior earnestly. 

“Say rather that she might die, because it would 
spite us. I do not believe she is half as sick as 
she makes out to be, but let her go this time. But, 
I’ll tell you, I am scorching that rascally priest 
who tried to get her away.” 

At this point in the conversation Bishop Manning 
was announced, and Mallory took his departure. 
He received a gracious welcome from the Superior. 
The bishop talked about the general welfare of the 
convent, before he alluded to the subject that lay 
nearest his heart. But at last he asked directly 
about Sister Angelica, and expressed his wish to 
see her. 

When they entered the room. Sister Angelica was 
quietly sleeping, and the Superior wished to arouse 
her, but the bishop said : “Oh, no, let her rest, I 
will wait till she awakes.” 

And he sat by the bed and looked at the tranquil 
features that were now in repose. As he looked, 
there seemed to come over him a m3’stic spell, 
woven from the scattered threads of the past. He 
saw a fine looking man in the full vigor of life, and 


292 EARNEST EEIGHTON. 

a beautiful woman with the light of love in her 
eyes. They were in their own house, in the pos- 
session of happiness and abundance. They had 
children that were loved. He saw this couple 
stricken down and the children left in orphanage. 
The whole scene of agony came up before him, that 
was enacted on that dark and awful night. There 
came the silent procession of death that bore the 
long sleepers to their couches in the cemetery. 

There were two children ! he had not forgotten 
them. They were cruelly torn apart and lost to 
each other. One of them was buried away in a 
convent, the other was roaming, he knew not 
where. This silent man, with his clear-cut, secret 
face, was reproaching himself in this moment of 
retrospect. It would not last long, but it was 
intense while it did last. There was something in 
the face before him that called up these thoughts 
that he had tried so hard to bury. 

Angelica opened her eyes and gazed at the 
bishop wonderingly. 

He came near the Ted, took her by the hand, 
and asked gently: “How do you feel now, my 
poor girl?” 

“Better,” she said languidly. 

There was something like compassion, came 
into his cold gray eyes as he looked on that frail 
form. 

“How much like her mother,” he murmured to 
himself. “The same spiritual beauty, the same 
fine mouth, the same deep blue eyes. Poor girl ! 


THE INVALID. 293 

if your mother could have lived, how tenderly she 
would have cared for you !” 

Then to the sick girl : “Is there anything you 
want? Can I do anything for you?” 

She looked at him long and silently, as if she 
were tr^dng to study the face — trying to see if there 
was anything tender in it. 

“Yes,” she said, “you can do much for me if 
you will.” 

“What can 1 do, my good girl?” 

“Give me that for which my heart is breaking, 
my liberty, and the right to die in the faith of 
my mother.” 

“But you are too weak to leave here now,” he 
said with a chill about his heart. 

“Give me your sacred promise that I may go 
when I am strong enough, and how fast I shall 
improve. What I need is the free air of heaven.” 

“Do they not treat you well?” he asked 
evasively. 

“I have no complaint to make of the treatment 
beyond the imprisonment. I want to be as other 
girls who go and come as they like.” 

“I am sure you have kind and attentive friends 
here.” 

The woman shook her head, but said only : 
“Possibly you do not know all that one suffers.” 

“I do not think you should wish to leave the con- 
vent.” 

She spoke with a nervous energy that surprised 
the bishop ; 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


294 

“I am not a Catholic, I do not believe what you 
teach. I am only a prisoner here. If I believed it 
were right to consecrate my life as you say, I 
should do so without a murmur. But it is against 
the best feelings of my heart ; it is repulsive to 
every conviction I have, and I am no better than a 
chained slave here. You bind me hand and foot, 
and then you try to take away my soul-freedom. 
Every day I am forced to witness solemn rites that 
I do not believe to be worship. I am so weary of 
this hollow life I am leading, and I want to go 
away from this place and be the girl that God 
intended I should be. Besides, somewhere in this 
great world, I have a brother, if he is not buried 
from sight. Why can not I see him? What has 
either of us done that we should be separated these 
long years? Do you tell me that this, too, is a part 
of your worship? My brother would care for me, 
if he were here. I remember when I cried every 
day because he was not with me, and I pleaded 
piteously for him, but it was all unavailing. You are 
a man of authority, and by your influence, I may be 
free. Will you not listen to the prayer of a dying 
girl? Think of all I have suffered, left in lonely 
orphanage, robbed of my only brother, held in 
weary imprisonment, forced to conform to a 
religious worship, which my soul abhors. Oh, 
sir, if you have any sympathy, please let me go 
away. Every night and morning I'll pray the good 
God to bless you.’’ 

She sank back weak and helpless ; the effort had 


THE INVALID. 


295 


been too much for her. The bishop’s face hid the 
contending emotions of his heart. The sick girl 
had strangely disturbed him. He sat in silent 
thought for a long while, as if trying to escape 
some unpleasant duty. Then he arose, went close 
to the bed, took up the white, slender hand of the 
invalid, and said in alow earnest, voice : 

“Be of good cheer, all will yet end well.” 

He turned and left the room. The sympathy of 
the man was fiercely struggling with the policy 
of the priest. The pale face unnerved him, and 
he wanted to escape its influence that he might 
think more calmly. He was fearful that this 
invalid would force from him promises that he 
would afterwards regret. He called the Superior 
before he left the house, and, handing her a purse, 
said : 

“Spare no expense to make Sister Angelica 
comfortable. I’ll try to come again.” 

The bishop left behind him in the sick room, a 
ray of hope. And that hope gave the sick girl 
strength, and she slowly improved. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 

A few evenings after Robert Manning’s visit to 
Sister Angelica, just as dark was coming on, John 
cautiously stole to the house that had given shelter 
to Louis Langford. Under the better treatment of 
his rough friend, Louis had rapidly gained strength. 
He felt equal now to the ordinary emergencies of 
life, though he was still lean and haggard. 

John told him in his own quiet way that his sis- 
ter Marabel had returned to New York, and if he 
wished to accomplish anything, now was the time 
for action. There was one serious dilhculty in the 
way of an immediate movement. How could they 
approach Marabel without being observed? It was 
important that no mistake should be made here. 
They held a long council that night and the next 
evening they acted, but they acted on information 
> obtained by John on that day. 

Louis gained access to Marabel, and John 
remained without the house to guard against any 
surprise. 

When Marabel met her brother she was deeply 
distressed at his appearance. His painful suffer^ 
296 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 297 

ings had left a permanent impression on his manly 
face. But when he assured her how much he had 
improved since his escape from prison, her 
indignation knew no bounds against his enemies. 

Louis lost no time, but began at once to talk 
to his sister of the business in hand. He told 
of his own imprisonment, of the escape and re-cap- 
ture of Sister Angelica. He dwelt with especial 
fullness when he spoke of the invalid girl, and his 
sister caught his enthusiasm when he told of 
Angelica’s simple faith, and her unconquerable 
repugnance to Catholicism. 

“There are some strange points in her history,” he 
said. “The very fact that she is so unalterably 
fixed in her religious belief, leads me to the con- 
clusion that she must have had very strong 
Protestant antecedents. She also reiiiembers a 
home of luxury, where she had an only brother 
who was afterwards separated from her. The 
many proofs that she belongs to a refined and culti- 
vated family, raised in my mind a suspicion which 
has deepened into conviction, that Sister Angelica 
and Rena Leighton are one and the same. I have 
thought this for sometime, but I have scarcelv a 
doubt of it now. If it is within human power, I 
shall take her out of the convent and give her the 
freedom for which she has so long sighed. But 
first tell me all about the cause of your return and 
the object of your visit to Lexington.” 

Marabel told him in detail all the incidents with 
which she was connected while she was gone. 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


298 

The key to the whole mystery was found in 
Earnest’s property, which they so earnestly 
coveted. She closed the narrative with the fact 
that Earnest would soon follow her to the city. 

“You did not fathom the object of this visit?” 
he asked. 

“No.” 

Louis then laid before his sister the plans of the 
priests as he had received them from John. Then 
he said : 

“I am firmly determined to sever my connection 
with the Catholic Church.” 

His sister gave an exclamation of surprise at this 
announcement. 

“Do not be astonished at what I tell you. I sup- 
pose I have no choice in the matter as the church 
has already excommunicated me. But my whole 
nature is now in arms against this hierarchy. It was 
with reluctance that I ever consented to discharge 
the duties of a priest, and then it was under the 
influence of misrepresentation. I always held the 
confessional in distrust, and I only yielded my 
objections through the influence of the allurements 
that were thrown around the worship by Brother 
Benedict. A larger experience proves that I was 
deceived, and it becomes my solemn dut}' to reform 
my life, at least, till I bring it in harmony with my 
convictions. I have studied the question pro- 
foundly for months, and I wish to state briefly to 
you the reasons I have for changing my faith. 
The first thing that impressed me keenly, was 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 


299 

our constant violation of the second command- 
ment. My attention was called to this by Sister 
x\ngelica. The commandment reads as follows : 
‘Thou shalt not make unto thyself any graven 
image, or any likeness of anything that is in 
heaven above, or the earth beneath, or that is in 
the water under the earth : Thou shall not 
bow thyself down to them nor serve them.’ 
This is plain, strong language, and every day 
we are violating it. Our worship abounds in 
images, and we prostrate ourselves before them. 
Of course, we say, we do not worship the image, 
but the ordinary mind does not make such nice 
distinctions. Besides, we are expressly forbidden 
to bow ourselves before an image, and this we do 
in the face of God’s prohibition. I shall never 
again be guilty of this sin.” 

Marabel asked for his Bible and slowly read the 
Ten Commandments as found in King James’ 
version. Then she said : 

“I have read my Bible often, but I never before 
noticed this discrepancy. I have never seen a 
Catechism that contains the Second Commandment. 
I do not like this.” 

“But as 3^ou know, we are not allowed to read 
the Bible in the vulgar tongue. If we read at all, 
it must be the Douay Bible, which translation is 
made to suit the Catholic Church. I shall give 
you, my sister, a single illustration of the way in 
which they wrestle with God’s word. There is no 
authority in the Scriptures for the doctrine of pen- 


300 


EARNEST EEIGHTON. 


ance as taught by Rome. The only support they 
have for this dogma is to be found in a false trans- 
lation of the Bible. I have made out this tabular 
statement that will show you at once the force of 
my assertion.’’ He handed her a slip of paper, 
containing the following : 


Matt, xi: 
“ iv; 

“ xi: 

“ xii: 
Mark vi; 
Luke xiii : 

“ XV : 

“ xvi : 
“ xvii: 
Acts ii : 

“ xvii: 
2 Cor. xii : 


2 . 

17. 

20. 
41. 
12. 

3 * 

7 - 

30. 

3 - 

3S. 

30. 

21. 


UOUAY VERSION.* 

Do penance 
Do penance. 

They had not done penance 
Because they did penance 
That they should do penance. 
Unless you do penance. 

One sinner that doth penance. 
Tliey will do penance. 

If he do penance . 

Do penance. 

Do penance. 

Who have not done penance. 


VERSION OF THE CHURCH 
OF ENGU.VND. 

Repent ye. 

Repent. 

They repented not. 
Because they repented. 
That men should repent. 
Except ye repent. 

One sinner that repenteth . 
They will repent. 

If he repent. 

Kepent. 

Repent. 

Who have not repented . 


“When a doctrine must be supported by such 
questionable methods as these, I wish the libert}^ to 
renounce it. You, my sister, understand Greek, 
and you may consult the original at your leisure. 
It will sustain all I have said. 

When I began the study of theology there was 
one statement of my teacher that had a powerful 
fascination for my mind, but which has since 
become a great stumbling block. I refer to the 
proud claim of Rome to be the mother of us all. 
To belong to the original church, to be con- 
nected with the very fountain and source of 
our faith, is something for which one should 
congratulate himself. It is no small boast to 
be the mother church. But children are taufrht 
in the language of their mothers, and in that 
language they speak. For instance : ‘That the 


*The Hist 'ry of the Confessional. 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 


301 


Hebrew is a more ancient language than the Greek, 
and the Greek than the Roman, need to be 
stated only for a few. One proof of this fact is, 
that the Hebrew has given many words to the 
Greek, while the Greek has given none to the 
Hebrew ; so the Greek has given many words to the 
Latin, while the Latin has given none to the 
Greek. Thus we prove the Roman Church to have 
come out of the bosom of the Greek, from the fact, 
that all the leading ecclesiastical terms in the 
Roman Church are Greek. For example : “pope, 
“patriarch,” “synod,” “ecclesiastic,” “schism,” 
“schismatic,” “heresy,” “heretic,” “cate- 
chumen,” “hierarchy,” “church,” “exorcism,” 
“presbytery,” “mystery,” “catholic,” “canon,” 
etc. All these are Greek words, and we are 
constrained to ask why Rome departed from her own 
vernacular, when, in her more mature years, she 
has developed such a fondness for the Latin 
tongue? The answer is, that in the early church 
the Greeks preponderated over the Latins, as is 
clearly proved by the number of Greeks repre- 
sented in the early councils, and from the fact also, 
that the first church historians were Greeks. Pur- 
suing this line of argument, I am presuaded that 
Rome is not my mother, nay, not even my step- 
mother, and I do not intend to be forced or cheated 
into recognizing her authority. 

But there is nothing in the doctric.os 't t’ ‘ 
church that is more objectionable tha.. t' e > - 
fessional. My whole soul abhors lie. t . . . • 


302 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


priest the vicegerent of Christ, and gives him 
power to retain or remit sins. It makes the validity 
of his action depend, not upon his words, but upon 
his intention. The ev^erlasting welfare of a human 
soul rests upon the act of a man with all his 
bitter hates and his uncompromising prejudices. 
Through the agency of the confessional, the priest 
wields a fearful influence over the minds of his 
congregation. In the name of religion, he pries 
into every secret of the heart ; then these secrets 
become to him sources of immense power 

It is one of their uniform customs to get pos- 
session of the children and drill them in the doc- 
trines of the church. One can scarcely resist the 
influence of perpetual teaching. My nature was in 
rebellion against many doctrines of the Catholic 
Church, still a shrewd monk placed before me her 
fairest tenets and won my consent to accept those 
that were the most deformed. But I know enough 
now to force me to renounce every allegiance to a 
church that is resolved on conquest, whatever the 
cost may be. But my determination to be rid of 
the church, has not forestalled its determination to 
be rid of me.’’ 

He took from his pocket a newspaper and said : 
“If you wish you may read my excommunication. 
It was published two days since at the instigation 
of Father Mallory.” 

She read slowly and with deepening horror, the 
following curse : 

“By the authority of God Almighty, the Father, 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 303 

Son and Holy Ghost, and the undefiled Virgin 
Mary, Mother and patroness of our Savior, and of 
all celestials, virtues, Angels, Archangels, Thrones, 
Dominions, Powers, Cherubims and Seraphims ; 
and of all the Holy Patriarchs, Prophets, and of all 
the Apostles and Evangelists of the Holy Innocents, 
who, in the sight of the Holy Lamb are found 
worthy to sing the new song of the Holy Martyrs 
and Holv Confessors, and of all the Holy Virgins 
and of all Saints, together with the Holy Elect of 
God — may he, Louis Langford, be damned. 
We excommunicate and anathematize him, and 
from the threshold of the Holy Church of God 
Almighty, we sequester him, that he may be tor- 
mented,* disposed and be delivered over with 
Dathan and ’Abiram, and with those who say unto 
the Lord : ‘Depart from us, for we desire none of 
thy ways as a fire is quenched with water, so let 
the light of him be put out forever more, unless it 
shall repent him, and make satisfaction. Amen ! 
May the Father, who created man, curse him ! 
May the Son, who suffered for us, curse him ! 
May the Holy Ghost, who suffered for us in 
baptism, curse him ! May the Holy Cross, which 
Christ for our salvation, triumphing over his 
enemies, ascended, curse him ! May the Holy arid 
Eternal Virgin Mary, Mother of God, curse him ! 
May St. Michael, the Advocate of the Holy Souls, 
curse him ! May all the angels, principalities and 
powers, and all the heavenly armies, curse him ! 
Mav the praise-worthy multitude of Patriarchs, 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


r.04 

and Prophets, curse him ! Ma}’’ St. John the Pre- 

cursor, and St. John the Baptist, and St. Peter, 
and St. Paul, and St. Andrew, and all others of 
Christ’s Apostles together, curse him ! And 
may the rest of our Disciples and Evangelists, 
who by their preaching converted the universe, 
and the holy and wonderful company of Martyrs 
and Confessors, who by their holy works are found 
pleasing to God Almighty ; may the holy choir of 
the Holy Virgins, who for the honor of Christ 
have despised the things of the world, damn him ! 
May all the saints from the beginning of the world 
to everlasting ages, who are found to be beloved of 
God, damn him ! May he be damned wherever 
he be, whether in the house or in the stable, the 
garden or the field, or the highways ; or in the 
woods, or in the waters, or in the church; may 
he be cursed in living or in dying ! May he be 
cursed in eating and in drinking, in being 
hungry, in being thirsty, in fasting, in sleeping, 
in slumbering and in sitting, in living, in working, 
in resting and blood letting ! May he be cursed 
in all the faculties of his body ! May he be cursed 
inw'ardly and outwardly ; may he be cursed in his 
brains and in his vertex, in his temples, in his eye- 
brow^s, in his cheeks, in his jaw bones, in his 
nostrils, in his teeth, and grinders, in his lips, in his 
throat, in his shoulders, in his arms, in his fingers. 

May he be damned in his mouth, in his breast, 
in his heart, in his purtenance, down to the very 
stomach ! May he be cursed in his reins, and in 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 305 

his groins, in his thighs, and in his hips, and his 
knees, his legs and feet, and toe-nails ! May 
he be cursed in all his joints, and articulation 
of the members ; from the crown of his head 
to the sole of his feet, may there be no soundness. 
May the Son of the living God, with all the glory 
of his majesty, curse him I And may heaven 
with all the powers that move therein, rise up 
against him and curse him and damn him ; unless 
he repent and make satisfaction ! Amen. So be 
it. Be it so. Amen.” 

When Marabel had finished reading this curse, 
her face was pale with suppressed feeling, and then 
came trembling from her lips : 

“And this from the church that I have so faith- 
fully served ! This to my brother, whom I love 
better than my life !” 

She walked to and fro across the room, her face 
showing the deep passion that was glowing like a 
flame in her heart. She suddenly stopped before 
Louis, threw up her hands in an impulsive way, 
and exclaimed : 

“I hate them all with the undying hatred of a 
woman who has seen one she loves trampled upon 
and outraged. I have been fanactical in their 
worship. I have answered priestly questions that 
have made my cheeks burn with shame. I have 
had priests to pry with merciless curiosity into the 
secret thoughts that a maiden holds so precious. I 
have been driven from pillar to post in their service. 
I have seen things that made my very blood run 


3o6 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


cold and made me shudder to the center of my 
heart. I have borne everything because I was 
infatuated. I have suffered anxiety on your 
account, because of the cruel hints that were 
thrown out. And now, if they curse my brother, 
they shall curse me. If they pour upon his head 
the vials of their wrath, they shall pour them on 
mine. If he is not worthy to be a son of the 
church, I am not worthy to be her daughter. 
When my brother goes, I shall go ; his home shall 
be my home, and his faith, my faith.” 

Louis looked with admiration on his proud, 
imperious sister. And when she ceased speaking, 
he sprang to his feet and held her close to his 
heart. 

In this great crisis of their lives they understood 
each other. And a little later, when they sep- 
arated, they were pledged to carry out the same 
plan. 

All through that night, Marabel called up the 
past in bitter review, and dreamed with a tremulous 
joy over the possibilities of the future. When the 
winter sun stole into her room, her bed was still 
untouched. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 

The crown of years was sitting on the head of 
Mr. Malor. The days of his active ministry were 
past, and the faithful pastor, in his old age, was 
enjoying the rich reward of a virtuous and useful 
life. The young and middle-aged came to him for 
advice, drawn from his rich experiences, and they 
were never turned away empty. He was like an 
ancient patriarch, at whose feet were gathered 
many children, and over whose heads, with 
uplifted hands, he was pronouncing a perpetual 
blessing. Happy is the decline of a life that has 
been nobly and unselfishly spent. 

Dr. Logan, too, bore the traces of the passing 
years. He was the same impatient, hospitable, 
noble-hearted old gentleman. His impulses for 
good were still quick and generous, and he still had 
an abundant supply of that withering scorn that 
he most lavishly visited on the iniquitous evil doer. 
He had long since quitted his practice, save only 
among a few special friends. Every one loved the 
doctor, not on account of his irritability, but 
because of his native goodness of heart. The 
friendship between himself and Mr. Malor had 
strengthened with the gathering years. They were 


3o8 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


very much together, and often spoke of the experi- 
ences of their early lives. And in their retrospec- 
tive moments it was not unusual for them to recur 
to their former intimacy with William Leighton. 
This always ended in a discussion as to the prob- 
able whereabouts of his orphan children. The 
aged minister had an unbroken faith that, in the 
course of his own life. Earnest and Rena Leighton 
would be restored to the home of their ancestors. 
The old doctor was skeptical and impatient. He 
believed it all to be nonsense. The priestly dogs 
had long ago made an end of these promising 
young children. Then he would consign the whole 
priestly crew to unmentionable localities, with 
the most imaginative and horrible surroundings. 

During the afternoon of the day on which 
occurred the events narrated in the last chapter, 
the doctor had called on the minister. The old 
subject of the Leightons had come up for an 
unusually warm discussion. Mr. Malor tranquilly 
re-affimed his hopeful faith, and Dr. Logan 
impetuously urged his skepticism. 

When the controversy was at its height, a serv- 
ant appeared bearing a letter for Mr. Malor. It 
bore the city post-mark. He broke the seal and 
read the missive with an expression of surprise 
rapidly gathering in his face. He had scarcely 
finished, when he thrust it toward Dr. Logan with 
the exclamation : *Tt contains news of Earnest 
Leighton ; read !” 

The doctor eagerly seized the letter, and, with 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 309 

trembling hands, adjusted his glasses, in order to 
read its contents. It ran as follows : 

Mr. Malor: 

Dear Sir: I have news of Earnest Leighton which will deeply 
interest you. In order to communicate it I will call at your 
house this evening at eight o’clock. I wish you to have Dr. 
I.,ogan present, as he is equally interested. I can not sign my 
name, as I wish to remain entirely unknown. Besides you two 
1 trust our interview may have no other witnesses. Believe me 
to be one who is not indifferent to the welfare of William 
Leighton’s children. 

The note was unsigned. The two men looked 
at each other in wonder. At last the doctor 
blurted out: “It is a deception — a cheat. No 
signature — no address — the whole thing is 
gammon.” 

“But it may not be,” said the minister. “I 
believe it to be genuine. At all events it will not 
be long till the matter may be thoroughly tested.” 

“If any one should come, how should we know 
whether or not to believe him. I am no subject for 
sharp practice,” insisted the incredulous old 
doctor. 

“But remain anyhow,” urged the minister good 
naturedly. “If I am to be duped I wish company, 
and then you are expressly invited.” 

The doctor finally consented to be present, 
though he still declared that they would be victim- 
ized. 

The hours never pass rapidly when we are 
anxiously awaiting a time in which there may be 
a revelation concerning great interests. The after- 
noon wore slowly away. As darkness came on the 


3 to EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

rain and sleet changed into snow, and the storm 
raged with terrible fury. The clouds hung low, 
the wind came in whirling eddies, and the snow 
fell in blinding sheets. 

It lacked a few moments till eight o’clock when 
Dr. Logan walked to the window, and gazed out at 
the night.” 

‘•No one will ever come through such a storm as 
this,” he said. 

His words were scarcely spoken when the door 
bell was rung violently. Presently the door to the 
library was thrown open, and a woman stood on 
the threshold of the room. The old doctor stared 
in amazement as the ejaculation escaped his lips : 
“A woman, by all that is good.” 

There was a momentary pause before Mr. Malor 
sufficiently recovered himself to invite the lady to 
a seat near the fire. She accepted his invitation 
with a bow, and moved gracefully toward the prof- 
fered chair. She was dressed in deep mourning 
and wore a heav}^ black veil that entirely hid her 
features. No opinion could be framed of her per- 
sonal appearance, beyond her elegant form and 
queenly carriage. 

The two gentlemen moved mechanically to 
positions on either side of her ; and the minister 
introduced the conversation by the universal 
remark, applicable alike to all circumstances and 
conditions : , 

“A stormy night, madam.” 

“Very indeed,” was responded, in tones of 
tremulous music. 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 31I 

The doctor spoke : “We could have forgiven 
you a disappointment to-night, the weather being 
inclement.” 

“But, sir, the disappointment would have been 
with me — a disappointment I could never bear. 
Do you know that sometimes a wilder storm rages 
in our hearts than ever bursts from clouds above 
us?” 

There was a painful intensity in her manner of 
speaking this. But she went on, talking with 
increasing excitement that broke her utterances 
into fragments. “I spoke of the Leightons — I 
know much about them — they are in deep trouble 
— they need help — I accidentally learned that you 
had an interest in them — would be willing to assist 
them — for the love of heaven do not refuse.” 

Her small hands were clasped, and she leaned 
forward in the attitude of pleading. But the 
heavy veil still covered her face and hid the 
expression of her features. 

The old doctor was deeply interested, and 
he eagerly asked : “Are you related to the 
Leightons?” 

“No, oh no,” she said, “but do notask me who 
I am. I can not tell you now. You will know 
sometime. What I want is help for those who are 
in danger.” 

The minister arose and looked down on her with 
his kindly eyes. The good, gray-haired old man 
seemed about to pronounce a blessing upon her. 
And this anxious woman seemed sadly in need of 


312 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

a blessing from the tranquil spirit before her. But 
he only said — ^gently said : 

“We are your friends, and friends of Earnest 
and Rena Leighton if they are alive. Speak to us 
freely, and as freely will we give you help. 
There is no power that we possess which we would 
not cheerfully wield for the benefit of the orphan 
children of our old friend.” 

There came a broken sob from beneath the veil, 
and the words were heard : “God will bless you.” 

The lady recovered herself immediately and 
went on : “You are aware that for many years 
Robert Manning, in the interest of the Catholic 
Church, has been controlling the property of the 
Leightons. Their first policy was to get the 
estate into the hands of Earnest, influence him to 
be a priest, and since a priest can not hold 
property, the whole of it would have reverted to the 
church. But Earnest, refusing to become a priest, 
made his escape, and this necessitated a change of 
policy. Before stating the second and present plan 
it is necessary to give two facts : Rena Leighton is 
in the Convent of St. Mary, but has never been pros- 
elyted to the Catholic faith. She is reputed to be 
in the last stage of consumption. This, however, 
may be false, though she is certainly in very delicate 
health. Earnest has been in Kentucky for several 
years, although his whereabouts was only recently 
discovered by an agent of Father Mallory. The 
present policy is as follows : The priests will get 
Earnest in their power so as to completely control 


OLD AC(4U MNTANCES. 313 

his actions. They will then adduce sufficient evi- 
dence to establish the fact of his death. This being 
done, the estate will pass to Rena, who is the only 
remaining heir. But she is in a convent, subject 
to the manipulations of a wily priesthood. And 
more than this, she is in a precarious state of 
health, doubly, therefore, the victim of any scheme 
that may have for its end the management of her 
wealth. She possibly may die within the year ; 
then the church would be certain to hold the entire 
property. This arrangement is so far matured that 
Earnest has already been induced to come to New 
York. He is now on his way. As soon as he 
reaches here he will be decoyed into the leashes of 
the priests, and no more will ever be heard of him. 

Now I wish you to prevent this calamity, and 
to rescue Rena Leighton. If she remains in that 
convent much longer she is sure to die. She is too 
beautiful and good to die so young.” 

She spoke with a quick, concentrative force till 
she came to speak of the danger that threatened 
Rena, then her voice became low and unsteady. 

The old doctor was very much excited. He 
sprang to his feet, brought his cane down with 
emphasis, and declared in his positive way that no 
further harm should befall those dear children. 
Mr. Malor was much calmer, though his hands 
shook and his voice trembled. He appeared to 
lift up his soul in silent prayer, that after so many 
years of waiting his cherished hope was to have its 
glad fruition. 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


314 

The conversation was prolonged to- a very late 
hour of the night. But at last the visitor arose, 
extended her hand to each of them, besought them 
not to forsake the objects of her interest, and then 
went into the storm that was still raging in wildness 
and fury. 

The two men gazed at each other for a moment in 
silence. Then the doctor said : “Who can she be ?” 

Mr. Malor replied: “I have no idea, though I 
believe every word she has spoken.” 

“So do I,” responded the usually incredulous 
doctor. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

CONCLUSION. 

It was one of those fair mornings towards the 
close of February, that holds in. itself the promise 
of coming spring. One finds himself, almost invol- 
untarily, listening for the early song birds, and 
watching for the swelling buds. Such mornings 
always awaken in the heart a feeling of joy,. unless 
the heart is, indeed, very sad. 

Marabel Langford was sitting by her window, 
watching the sunlight as it gleamed in sheets of 
silver on the housetops, and sparkled like a cluster 
of jewels on the church steeples. In her face were 
the visible traces of anxiety and suffering, though 
there was a new hope beaming from her eye and a 
veil of gladness was falling over her features. She 
was looking beyond the perplexities that had sur- 
rounded her for so many days, and the fair vision 
she beheld wreathed her lips in smiles, and drove 
the shadows away from her brow. One would 
have said, as he gazed on her face, that a sweet 
message had been borne to her since the morning 
star had melted away before the splendors of a new 
day. 

A footstep beneath the window startled her, and 
glancing down she beheld the unwelcome visage 

315 


3i6 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


of Father Mallory. Her brow darkened, her lips 
closed firmly, and she stamped with impatience her 
little foot. 

The priest adjusted a night key to the lock, and, 
entering the hall, approached the sitting-room of 
Marabel unannounced. Many a man has received 
a warmer welcome from a lady than was accorded 
to the worthy priest on this eventful morning. But 
the character of his reception had no effect what- 
ever on his feelings. He appeared wholly absorbed 
in his own thoughts, and scarcely noticed at all the 
rebellious attitude of Marabel. 

He said briefly : “ I have received a letter to you 
from Earnest Leighton. He will reach the city on 
to-morrow evening’s train, and will come directly 
here. You may be prepared to receive him. You 
may also expect several other visitors, who will feel 
in duty bound to take on themselves the entertain- 
ment of Mr. Leighton.” 

Marabel repeated the word “ entertainment,” in 
a tone of scorn, and a visible curl of the lip. 

Mallory gave a start of surprise, as he scrutinized 
her features. “ Thunderation ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ What does this mean? ” 

“It means,” said Marabel quietly, “if Mr. 
Leighton comes here I shall receive his visit 
through courtesy to him, and not because I am 
commanded by you.” 

“ You shall respect my author! t}^,” thundered the 
priest. 

“No more than I respect the authority of any 


CONCLUSION. 


317 


Spaniel that may be sneaking through our streets. 
Mr, Mallory, I am no longer a Catholic.’’ Her 
proud and queenly figure seemed to grow taller as 
she uttered these words. 

“ By all the nfinions of Beelzebub, what is the 
matter with you ! ” exclaimed the excited priest. 

“ I am disgusted with your wickedness,” was the 
pointed reply. 

‘And alter to-morrow you shall feel the sting of 
my hatred. You are a pretty thing ! Why, I took 
you out of that fourth-story pig-pen, where you had 
been eating husks, and I have seen you clothed, fed 
and educated, and this is your return. You may 
bet that I will lower your ideas in a whiffet, my fine 
young lady.” 

Without a word Marabel turned from him and 
walked out of the room. In silent rage he watched 
her haughty movement till she passed from sight, 
then with a muttered oath he rushed from the house. 

On Uie evening of this same day another event 
occurred which has a vital connection with this 
story. At the distance from New York of about 
eight hours’ travel by rail there was a station where 
passengers on the western stages lay over to take 
the morning train for the metropolis. At this time 
Earnest Leighton arrived on one of these stages. 
He registered at the only hotel in the place, and 
early after supper retired to his room. 

Owing to an accident the out train from New 
York was a few hours behind time. It was near 9 
o’clock when it arrived. It had scarcely stopped 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


318 

when a stranger sprang off, and hastily walking into 
the office of the hotel began to run over the names 
on the register. When he came to that of Earnest 
Leighton he took from his pocket a pencil and 
card and wrote in a round elegant hand : 

Compliments of Louis Langford — would like to see Mr. Leigh- 
ton in his room immediately. 

He handed, the card to the clerk, with a request 
that it should be delivered promptly, and walked 
the floor impatiently while awaiting an answer. 

The waiter soon returned, and led Louis Lang- 
ford to the room of Earnest Leighton. Busy were 
the thoughts of both during the intervening mo- 
ments. 

When the door was thrown open and they stood 
in each other’s presence, their hands involuntarily 
met with the exclamations falling from their lips r 

“ Louis Langford ! ” 

“ Earnest Leighton ! ” 

They scrutinized each other’s appearance closely, 
as if they were ransacking memory' to recall every 
vestige of their former selves. 

“ Do you remember the urchin that came to your 
father’s house on the evening of your great bereave- 
ment?” asked Louis Langford. 

“ I recall vividly the instance, but would fail to 
connect you with that noble-hearted little fellow. 
But your voice — I shall never forget it — is the voice 
of him who aided my escape when I was a helpless 
prisoner. I can never repay you for that act of 
unselfish kindness.” The eye of Earnest bearned 


CONCLUSION. 319 

with admiration for the noble man who stood in his 
presence. 

“Do not speak of repaying me,” rejoined 
Louis. “There are some acts of life that lose 
all their beauty in the presence of a compensation. 

I myself have just escaped from a similar impris- 
onment to your own. And I am freed none too 
soon to save you from a Worse fate than the one 
from which I rescued you.” 

He hesitated for a moment, and then proceeded : 
“I have thought for a long while that, by some 
strange providence, the fortunes of our families 
were leading us more closely together. Mallory 
was certain I was instrumental in your escape, and 
from that moment till now I have rested under his 
suspicion, watchful and deadly. I again became 
involved in my efforts to help your sister- — ” 

“My sister?” Earnest was on his feet in an 
instant, and his face was quivering with eager 
excitement. “ Where is m3' sister?” 

Louis Langford related to him the facts concern- 
ing Rena, which are already in possession of the 
reader. He told of her long and patient struggle 
against the oppression of the convent, of her dreary 
waiting, of her hopeless anguish, of her shattered 
health and wrecked constitution. It would have 
been difficult to tell which exhibited the deeper 
interest, the narrator or the listener. Tears were 
in the eyes of both long before he had finished. 

“My first duty is to deliver my sister,” said 
Earnest sadly. 


320 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“To enable you to accomplish that purpose I 
have come to meet you. Remember you have to 
deal with a wary priesthood. You expect to go to 
my sister’s ; should you do so it would be your last 
night of liberty. I propose taking you to the home 
of Mr. Malor, who is one of your most constant 
friends.” 

A troubled look came into Earnest’s face as he 
asked: “What is the object of this pei'secution ?” 

“Your money,” said Louis wifh a smile. 

“ Is there no wav to break the power of these 
men?” 

“ Yes : get in legal possession of your property, 
and you will be troubled no more. You are now 
of age, and can demand a settlement at once. But, 
in the meantime, keep out of the clutches of your 
enemies.” 

“ In order to accomplish this I must place myself 
under still greater obligations to you. Your service 
is invaluable to me.” 

“ Most cheerfully am I at your disposal until 
this business is well off hand. I am thoroughly 
acquainted with priestly intrigue, and I fully under- 
stand the present situation. With prudent and 
energetic movements we can easily defeat the 
plans of Mallory.” 

When the sun smiled on the earth the following 
morning, these young men were still in earnest 
conversation. They had been unfolding to each 
other the history of their past lives. Each of them 
had experienced much of painful struggle, of keen 


CONCLUSION. 


321 


disappointment, of hope deferred. But the deep 
blue sky that in silent glory arched their future, 
appeared radiant with its star-gems, save only for 
a single cloud that hung, with the dark brow of 
death, on the far-off horizon. 

By 10 o’clock they were speeding rapidly 
toward New York. Earnest was under the pressure 
of considerable excitement, but Louis was perfectly 
calm and undisturbed. He pointed out the beauties 
of the country to his companion, and entertained 
him with lively comments on its most attractive 
features. 

It was barely dark when they reached the 
metropolis. Everything was hurry and bustle. 
Louis Langford quieth’ made selection of a car- 
riage, motioned Earnest to enter, stepped in after 
him, and then gave to the driver the number of Mr. 
Malor’s house. 

As the carriage whirled away, a pair of mali- 
cious eyes gleamed after it, and with a subdued 
oath the man muttered : “What in the name of 
all the demons does this mean?” 

Earnest remained silent as they hurried through 
the streets. His thoughts were busy in comparing 
the time of his departure with this moment of his 
return. 

The carriage soon drew up before the door of 
Mr. Malor. When the young men entered the 
house they were met in the hall by the old min- 
ister and Dr. Logan. They were overjoyed to 
meet the son of their former friend. They gave to 
u 


32i EARNEST LElCHtTON. 

him the warmest welcome, and the expression of 
their gratitude to Louis Lanford was most flattering. 

Mr. Malor ushered them at once into the library. 
Earnest was in advance of the rest, and the first 
person he saw was Marabel. She came forward 
with extended hand, and they said : “Miss Lang- 
ford, Mr. Leighton,” and their greeting was 
ended. How different from what Earnest’s vivid 
imagination had painted ! How common-place 
these meetings are after all ! One dwells on them 
with an unspeakable fondness, and when they 
come how terribly matter-of-fact the}^ are I They 
are painfully void of romance. In the surprise 
of the moment, there was no pressure of the hand 
and responsive blush. Even that would have given 
zest and interest to the meeting. 

There was one other person present in the room. 
He had a sharp face, keen eyes, thin lips, thin 
nose, high forehead and an air about him that indi- 
cated the single word, business. Of course he was 
a lawyer. He was introduced to Earnest as Mr, 
Bronte, and Louis Langford greeted him as an old 
acquaintance. 

This little group engaged in very much conver- 
sation that is scarcely worthy of being put on 
record. It was interesting to most of them, 
because it was personal. The lawyer sat by idly 
tapping the table with his fingers, but never utter- 
ing a word. 

Louis Langford, too, in the main, was silent, 
but presently he said : “In all probability a life 


CONCLUSION. 


323 

hangs upon our actions to-night. Would we not 
better to business?” 

“Ay, to business,” exclaimed the lawyer 
energetically. 

Then followed a brief silence, which \^as broken 
by Mr. Bronte. “Gentlemen,! am at your service.” 

All eyes were turned toward Louis, and this 
silent appeal was strengthened by Dr. Logan 
remarking: “Mr. Langford, you must introduce 
our business.” 

“I will state the case briefly,” said Louis, turn- 
ing to the lawyer. “Robert Manning is the 
guardian of the children of William Leighton. 
These children are of age, and wish an immediate 
settlement.” 

“They shall have it in less than ten days,” 
interpolated the lawyer. 

“One of these children,” continued Louis “is 
in a convent against her will. We wish her taken 
out to-morrow on a writ of Habeas Corpus ^ 

“All right ; nothing easier,” said Mr. Bronte, 
making a memorandum. 

“Do you wish to institute proceeding against 
Mallory for false imprisonment."'” asked Louis of 
Earnest. 

“No, I wish to take no steps from motives of 
revenge.” 

“Then, Mr. Bronte, we have no further business 
with you to-night.” 

The lawyer said, as he rose to leave: “I will 
let you know what time to-morrow we will go to 


324 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

the convent. I think I can secure the writ at 
once.” He bowed them a good night and 
departed. 

It was near 3 o’clock on the next day when the 
lawyer called for Earnest, Mr. Malor and Dr. 
Logan to accompany him to the convent. 
rapid driving they soon reached their destination, 
and the officer of the law, who was with them, 
readily gained admission to the institution. 

The Superior wished to gain time by parleying, 
but the representative of justice declined to pass 
any words, but insisted that the authority of his 
writ should be at once recognized. At last the 
Superior yielded, and proposed she would bring 
Sister Angelica if she were able to leave her room. 
The officer said pointedly that he would accompany 
her. She objected ; but her objections were in 
vain. They left the room together, and the 
remainder of the party awaited their return. 

They had not long to wait. Soon the officer 
came, and leaning on his arm was a fair young 
being, clothed in white, and tottering as she 
walked. 

Earnest sprang forward and twined his strong 
arms around the slender form of his long-lost sis- 
ter, and tenderly kissed her pale lips. And she, 
poor girl, could only lock her hands around her 
brother’s neck and weep for joy. Presently she 
murmured: “Hold me close, my brother; I love 
so dearly the pressure of 3mur strong arms.” 

“They shall henceforth shield you, my little 


CONCLUSION. 325 

sister,” he said, as he looked down into the 
depths of her loving blue eyes. 

“Through all the weary years, my brother, 
since you lost your little sister, she has met only one 
faithful friend. And because he would help her 
they cast him into prison.” And a sob burst from 
her lips, as her head sank on her brother’s 
shoulder. 

“Do not weep little pet,” he said caressingly. 
“Your friend has escaped and is now free.” 

“Oh, then,” she said, “my cup of joy is full, 
and I ought to be so thankful.” 

The old doctor and minister came forward now 
to give Rena their greeting and blessing. But 
their hearts were filled with sadness as they gazed 
on the fragile creature who was so wasted by 
disease and confinement. 

“But Dr. Logan said abruptly: “This excite- 
ment is too much for Rena, we must get her away 
from here and give her quiet.” 

It required but a few moments to complete the 
preparations. As they were leaving the room the 
Superior came to bid her farewell. In reality she 
was very much affected. She wound her arms 
around the girl with the greatest tenderness, as she 
gave her a parting kiss. When she lifted her face 
it was suffused with tears. 

They drove away from the Convent of St. Mary 
with a mingled feeling of joy and sadness. Joy 
deep and full that Rena was found, sadness keen 
and painful that her life hung on so brittle a thread. 


326 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


Is it ever possible, in the midst of the uncertainties 
of human experience, to have a single joy without 
an overhanging shadow? 

After a slow drive they finally reached the resi- 
dence of Mr. Malor, when Rena was helped to her 
room and left to the care of Marabel. The hearts ' 
of these two young girls met with their hands, i 
They soon were talking with the freedom and ease 
of old friends. Rena spoke of the gratitude she felt 
to Louis Langford on account of the kindness 
shown her in the darkest moment of her life. 
Marabel gazed at the pure, uplifted face before 
her, and wondered if her brother would be satisfied 
with only the gratitude of such a heart. Then she 
sighed as she noticed the signal-flush of a disease 
that is both deceptive and deadly. 

They all gathered in the parlor that evening — 
all save one ; Louis Langford was not there. 
Earnest inquired for him, and Marabel explained 
that he was called away on business. There was 
one heart that felt this absence more than all 
others. But the evening passed joyfully and 
rapidly away. At its close the good old minister 
proposed that they should have reading and | 
! prayer. He read the beautiful Psalm, written by ! 
David after he had passed through great tribula- I 
tions, then he bowed his white head and reverently 
thanked God for this glad re-union which had at 
last come in the winter of his years. Then he 
sent them away to their rooms with his blessing on 
their heads — a good man’s blessing. 


CONCLUSION. 


327 


On the following morning Rena was stronger ; 
and in the afternoon Louis Langford came and 
asked for her. She went to the parlor alone, and 
found him in waiting. Louis came forward to 
meet her, and she extended both her hands, which 
he took ; her lips moved, but they refused to speak. 
After several efforts she finally said: “It was 
so brave and noble in you to risk your life for my 
sake. I have no words to tell you how grateful I 
am.” And her beautiful blue eyes were swimming 
in tears. 

“What you call a noble deed, others pronounce 
both treacherous and cowardly,” he sadly said. 
“But let us not speak now of what I have done, or 
of our past lives. Come, sit down in this cozy 
chair, and let us talk of books, and the flowers, 
and the birds.” 

“I love them all,” she said as she took the prof- 
fered chair — “the flowers — the birds — the books; 
but great deeds are worthy to be crowned. I shall 
weave you a chaplet of flowers, and the birds shall 
sing you a song of triumph.” 

“No one was ever anointed king by so fair a 
prophet,” he replied. “The birds will listen to 
the call of her voice, and the flowers will freshen 
at her touch.” 

“And all because my hero is worthy,” she 
playfully rejoined. 

“The inspiration that makes heroes is drawn 
from the object for which they fight. With this 
comparison before my mind, all my acts become 
insignificant.” I 


328 


EARNEST LEIGHTON. 


“A truce to your compliment/’ was replied. 
“But tell me why you have removed your priestly 
garments?” 

“I am no longer a member of the priesthood,” was 
rejoined, and a cloud swept over his face. “You 
know nothing of the crucial agony of a! crushing 
doubt. The confessional was repugnant to every 
feeling of my nature, and in yielding it I was com- 
pelled to yield all. lam no longer a Catholic.” 
There was a touching pathos in his tone and a 
silent agony in the expression of his eye that went 
like a sharp knife to the heart of his companion. 

But she only said :“Ifear I am too feeble to help 
you in this great struggle. I do wish I were able.” 

“You are able,” he said with sudden impulsive- 
ness. But he checked himself, and his strong 
nether lip trembled as he gained his self-control. 
He continued: “I must go now — you need rest 
and I must away to business, but I will come again 
to-morrow and bring you an offering of flowers.” 
Without another word he was gone. 

* * * * * * m 

Mr. Bronte was true to his promise, and in a few 
weeks he forced Robert Manning to a settlement. 
At first Mallory was furious, but he soon became 
quiet when it was intimated that a case of criminal 
prosecution might be instituted against himself. He 
remained in New York four weeks after steps had 
been taken to restore the Leighton estate to its legit- 
mate heirs ; then, for some cause, becoming uneasy, 
he secrectly sailed for Europe, where he has since 


CONCLUSION. 


329 


remained. The securities of Robert Manning suf- 
fered heavily in the final settlement. He was 
scarcely chargeable with dishonest transactions ; 
he had held the estate so long that he looked upon 
it as the property of the church, and the losses 
were occasioned by careless management. The 
affair wounded deepl}^ his sensative spirit, and, in 
all probability, shortened his life by many years. 

For many weeks Earnest was very busy getting 
his property well in hand. His first act was to 
repair and re-furnish the old homestead, on the 
banks of the Hudson. It was the first day of May 
that he installed Rena in the home of her child- 
hood. She had suffered very much during the 
changeable weather of April, and was now too 
weak to walk. A Took of quiet happiness stole 
into her beautiful face, as Earnest wheeled her 
invalid chair around the old house so full of 
romantic memories. She asked him to let her 
rest beneath the shade of the great elm, where 
they had played in their childhood, and where she 
could see the sun-lit wave of the historic river. 
She lay there a moment, and gazed out on the 
broad sheet of water, a fair, sweet image of every- 
thing that is good and holy in womanhood. 

In that quiet, sacred moment. Earnest told Rena 
of his love for Marabel, and of her promise to 
become his wife as soon as his little sister should 
grow stronger and better. He spoke of her he loved 
with the proud admiration of a noble-hearted man. 

Rena was delighted with the prospective happi- 


330 EARNEST EEIGIITON. 

ness of her brother, and was unbounded in praise 
of her new found sister. Earnest listened to her 
glowing words with a proud satisfaction. There 
is no joy deeper or sweeter than to hear senti- 
ments of appreciation of those we love. 

But presently her cheeks grew a little paler, as 
she said with a great deal of earnestness : 
“Brother, dear brother, you must not postpone 
your wedding day on account of my health. That 
I am delicate is the veiy reason you should marr}' 
earlier, for I wish so much to have Marabel with 
me. And then besides,” she hesitated a moment, 
and her voice grew low and sad, “besides you 
know, that the coming of the leaves may be a 
warning to me from the angels. Brother, I suf- 
fered so much when I was alone in that convent, 
and I wanted to go away then — go away and be at 
rest. But everything is brighter now, and I should 
love so much to live. Death rarely comes to those 
who are longing for his embrace — he comes when 
life is full of gladness and bright possibilities are 
opening up before us. But still I am so happy in 
the happiness of my brother, I want him to bring 
Marabel home so very soon. I long to twine my 
arms around her, and kiss her as my sister.” 

“Rena, Rena,” said Earnest, with a strain of 
agony in his voice, “you must not speak of dying. 
Love is a wonderful curative, and we all love you 
so much — we can not spare you, little sister.” 

She gave him a long, wistful look, and then 
replied : “Do not be alarmed at what I have said, 


CONCLUSION. 


331 


only promise me that your wedding day shall be as 
early as possible.” 

“I promise,” said Earnest. 

“Then wheel me back to the house, big brother, 
and if I am strong enough I will play you a single 
tune.” 

As they reached the door, they were attracted 
by the sound of wheels, and soon saw Louis Lang- 
i ford approaching. He drew near and handed a 
rich bouquet of fresh flowers to Rena with the 
remark : 

“I give a floral tribute to the new mistress of 
Leighton Mansion.” 

“And she accepts it with gratitude from the 
gallant knight that delivered her from prison,” 
responded Rena, with the color mantling her 
cheek. 

The young man gazed on the frail being before 
him with a gathering sadness in his large dark eyes. 

“Will the fresh air of your new home. Miss 
Rena, soon make you strong enough to take a 
boat-ride?” he asked. 

She turned her head and looked longingly at the 
river, then lifting her eyes to his, said with a faint 
smile, “I hope so.” 

As if in bitter mockery of this heart-yearning, 
she was seized with a spasm of coughing that 
stained her lips with crimson. Earnest lifted her 
in his arms and bore her to her room, and with the 
help of the old nurse, administered the palliatives 
to allay this fearful hemorrhage. When he 


332 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

returned, he found Louis Langford sitting on the 
chiseled lion that ornamented the steps, with his 
head bowed on his hand. 

The attitude was suggestive of a picture of the 
past, and Earnest said : “Thirteen years ago, 
Louis, you were sitting there, trying to console 
two bereaved children.” 

“Yes, yes,” he said, and his proud lips 
quivered with pain. “But thirteen years have 
brought so many changes. I do not feel the least 
kinship to the little boy that sat here so long ago. 
I have thoroughly grown out of myself. I was 
just pondering the question whether I am happier 
now than I was then.” 

“What is your decision?” asked Earnest. 

“I scarcely know. Manhood has higher duties, 
and it should bring a more elevated happiness. 
But the tears of age are more bitter than those of 
childhood.” They had arisen and were walking 
toward the gate, and there they parted with an 
inquiry from Louis in regard to Rena’s condition. 

Three weeks from that day, on the border-land 
between spring and summer, there was a quiet 
wedding at the old minister’s. Only a few guests 
were present, and they were the near friends of 
Earnest and Marabel. The joy of the occasion 
was enhanced by the greatly improved condition of 
Rena. The ceremony occurred in the morning, 
and the infair dinner was to be had at the Leighton 
Mansion. 

When the assembly gathered at^the old house, 


CONCLUSION. 333 

the delight of Mr. Malor and Dr. Logan was 
unbounded. They were living over again the days 
of their youth, and on this occasion they were the 
gayest of the gay. This event was the crown of 
their ripe years, and they could not have enjo3^ed 
with a keener relish the happiness of their own 
children. 

Here we leave Earnest, in the midst of his 
friends, in possession of his beautiful bride, and in 
the full enjoyment of the old homestead. Marabel 
never looked more queenly in her life than when 
leaning on the arm of her husband in the happy 
promenades of that evening The beauty of a 
great joy smiled on her lips and sparkled in her 
eye. Here was the realization of her most vivid 
dreams, and her heart beat with unbounded delight. 

The echoes of the old house were awakened by 
the joyous laugh and the gladsome song. All save 
two seemed to surrender themselves fully to the 
merriment of the occasion. These two were Louis 
and Rena, and they had stolen away to the alcove 
at one end of the library, overlooking the river. 
They were quiet here and partially secluded. 

Rena was sitting in a large arm-chair, and 
Louis occupied a stool at her feet. For many 
minutes they sat silently gazing out at the window 
at the broad expanse of water that moved so calmly 
before them. 

Presently he turned his eyes on her with a certain 
fondness in his look, and said in a low tone of 
solicitude : “You appear so weary. I fear this day 


334 EARNEST LEIGHTON. 

has been too great a tax on your power of 
endurance.’* 

“I am tired and faint, but that is not the worst,” 
she replied, as the tear-drops gathered in her eyes 
and hung on their lashes. “All through this day 
I have carried in my heart a spirit of rebellion — 
rebellion against my inevitable destiny. To feel 
thus makes me unhappy — so very unhappy. I 
have wondered why I have had my health destroyed 
and all my prospects of life blasted by cruel treat- 
ment in the convent, which no action of mine 
ever merited. Nature gave me a goodly heritage 
in a physical constitution, and I have laid it upon 
the altar of what 1 deemed to be my duty. Why 
of all the young girls of this land have I been 
selected for this sacrifice ? Bitter thoughts toward 
the Catiiolics have been in my mind to-day — far 
too bitter for one who is standing in the very 
shadow of the great hereafter. I have re-called the 
lonely vigils, the scant nourishment that I received, 
the suffering from thirst and innumerable priva- 
tions, and the consuming anxiety with which I was 
continually harrassed — and then I have looked 
upon this broken and ruined frame — oh, I can not 
tell you of the wave of resentment that sweepsi 
over my soul.” ! 

She buried her face in her hands, and a low, 
moan escaped from her lips. It was the vain 
regret for her ruined health, the touching, pathetic 
wail of the heart as it relinquishes its hold upon 
things earthly and fastens upon things eternal. It 


CONCLUSION. 


335 


was her sad Gethsemane, when the presence of 
the Lord was withdrawn, and before the comfort- 
ing angel had appeared. 

Louis Langford leaned forward and took both 
her hands in his own — those hot, flushed hands, 
and said in a pleading tone: “Do not talk that 
way, you are worn out now by the fatigues of the 
day. There has been too much excitement for 
3'our nervous condition. But remember that you 
are much better— strong enough to walk now. 
You shall suffer no more privations, and will have 
nothing to do but to get well. I intend getting up 
an excursion party to visit our mountains and 
northern lakes during the summer mpnths. Earn- 
est and Marabel shall join me and take you with 
them. How hale and hearty you will be when we 

return.’’ , 

She closed her eyes and leaned back: in her 

chair for a moment, still clinging to his hand. 
Then without changing her attitude, she said : “I 
shall never climb the glorious mountains that God 
has planted on our beautiful land.” 

“If you are not strong enough to climb the 
mountains,” said Louis, “we will sit down by 
one of those grand old lakes, a vast pool of 
Bethesda, and wait for an angel to trouble its 
waters, that you may bathe and be healed.” 

She suddenly opened her large wistful eyes, full 
of tenderness now, and said, as a glow of happi- 
ness gathered in her face : “How my heart longs 
to cling to vour hope ! How fair and beautiful is 


336 


EARNEST EETGHTON 


the vision of those grand mountains, lifting their 
royal heads on high. And those queenly lakes, 
lying so calm and quiet beneath the sun, or rippling 
in silver wavelets. When you sit at the foot of the 
mountains or gaze out on the lakes, I want you 
sometimes to think of me. I can not go with you 
now, I am waiting for- the visit of an angel who 
will never trouble the waters, for he bears no 
healing in his wings/' 








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